A TOUCHING CEREMONY.

The following verses were suggested by a touching ceremony which
lately took place in the chapel of the Congregation Convent,
Notre Dame, Montreal, the beloved Institution in which the happy
days of my girlhood were passed. The ceremony in question was the
renewal of her vows by the Venerable Mother Superior, just fifty
years from the date of her first profession, which was made at
the early age of fifteen. In the world, in the few rare instances
in which both bride and bridegroom live to witness the fiftieth
anniversary of their union, the ”golden wedding,“ as it is
usually called, is generally celebrated with great pomp and
rejoicing; tis but just, then, that in religion, the faithful
spouses of the Saviour should welcome with equal satisfaction the
anniversary of the epoch which witnessed the mystical union
contracted with their Heavenly Bridegroom.

Montreal, Sept. 28, 1859.

On a golden autumn morning,
  Just fifty years ago,
When harvests ripe lay smiling
  In the sunshine’s yellow glow,
A pious group was standing
  Round the lighted altar’s flame
In the humble convent chapel
  Of the Nuns of Notre Dame.

A girl of fifteen summers,
  With gentle, serious air,
In novice garb of purple,
  Was humbly kneeling there;
Uttering the vows so binding
  Whose magic power sufficed
To make that child-like maiden
  The well-loved Bride of Christ.

No troubled, anxious shadow
  O’er-clouded that young brow,
As with look and voice unfaltering
  She breathed her solemn vow:
No regretful glances cast she
  On the pomps that she had spurned,
Nor the dream of love and pleasure
  From which she had coldly turned.

       *       *        *       *        *

Fifty years of joy and sorrow
  Since that day have o’er her flown—
Years of words and deeds of mercy,
  Living but for God alone—
And again a group is standing,
  By this holy scene enticed,
To renew the golden bridal
  Of this faithful spouse of Christ.

True, her brow has lost the smoothness
  And her cheek the fresh young glow
That adorned them on that autumn
  Morning—fifty years ago;
But, oh! think not that her Bridegroom
  Loves her anything the less;
He sees but the inward beauty
  And the spirit’s loveliness.

Cloister honors long have fallen
  Ceaseless, constant, to her lot,
But, like cloister honors falling,
  Unto one who sought them not;
Daughter meek of the great Foundress
  Of thy honored house and name,
Worthy art thou to be Abbess
  Of the nuns of Notre Dame!

ON THE DEATH OF THE SAME REVEREND NUN, THE VENERABLE MOTHER ST. MADELEINE, TEN YEARS LATER.

In Memoriam.

Grief reigns now within the convent walls,
And sadly float through its silent halls
The notes of a requiem—solemn, clear,
Falling like wail on each listening ear,
And with tearful eyes and features pale,
With low bowed head and close drawn veil,
To the convent church, round a bier to kneel,
The daughters of Marguerite Bourgeoys steal.

Scant is the mourning pomp displayed,
Nor plumes nor hangings of gloomy shade,
But rev’rend prelates and priests are there,
With crowds of mourners joining in prayer;
Each sister’s heart is filled with grief,
To which faith alone can bring relief,
Deploring the loss of that sainted nun,
Friend, mother and abbess, all in one.

Yet why should sorrow fill thus each breast?
That well loved one has entered her rest,
To live in eternal, cloudless light,
To live in our memories, blessed and bright;
Her chair may be vacant—her place unfilled—
But her mission high was all fulfilled.
And the thought of how well she did her part
Will ever dwell in each sister’s heart.

Sixty-one years passed in convent home,
Amassing wealth for a world to come,
Sixty-one years of constant prayer,
Of cloister duties fulfilled with care,
Of gentle aid to each sister dear,
Kind tender counsel—sympathy’s tear,
Of high commune with her Maker, known
Perchance to herself and to God alone.

Sixty-one years, oh! think of it well,
Since first she entered the convent cell!
On her cheek youth’s soft and roseate dyes,
Its radiant light in her cloudless eyes,
Turning from earth’s alluring wiles,
From worldly promptings, from pleasure’s smiles,
From love’s soft pleading look and tone,
To give herself unto God alone.

Since then she has witnessed many a change,
In the world around her, startling, strange;
Her much loved Order growing in strength
Throughout America’s breadth and length;
Our young city stretching far and wide,
Till it reaches Mount Royal’s verdant side,
Where, fair as an Eden, through leafy screen,
Villa Maria is dimly seen.

Timeworn foreheads and brows of snow
Has the one we mourn seen in dust laid low;
Fair girlish novice and nun professed,
Quietly gathered to earth’s dark breast;
But with thoughts on heaven, she, through all,
Patiently waited her Father’s call,
It came, and now she lays gladly down
Her long borne cross to take up her crown.

Montreal, January, 1869.

THE RIVER SAGUENAY.

Few poets yet in praise of thee
  Have tuned a passing lay,
Yet art thou rich in beauties stern,
  Thou dark browed Saguenay!

And those grand charms that surely form
  For earth her rarest crown
On thee, with strangely lavish hand,
  Have all been showered down.

Thine own wild flood, so deep, so dark;
  That holds the gaze enthralled
As if by some weird spell, at once
  Entranced yet not appalled;

Seeking in vain to pierce those depths,
  Where wave and rock have met,
Those depths which, by the hand of man,
  Have ne’er been fathomed yet.

And then thy shores—thy rock bound shores,
  Where giant cliffs arise,
Raising their untrod, unknown heights
  Defiant to the skies,

And casting from their steep, stern brows
  Shadows of deepest gloom
Athwart thy wave, till it doth seem
  A passage to a tomb.

Such art thou in thy solitude,
  Majestic Saguenay!
As lonely and as sternly rude
  As in time past away,

When the red man in his fragile bark
  Sped o’er thy glassy wave,
And found amid thy forests wild
  His cradle, home and grave.

All, all is changed—reigns in his stead
  Another race and name,
But, in thy lonely grandeur still,
  Proud River, thou’rt the same!

NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE POEMS.

RED ROCK CAMP.

A TALE OF EARLY COLORADO.

My simple story is of those times ere the magic power of steam
First whirled the traveller o’er the plains with the swiftness of a dream,
Reducing to a few days’ time the journey of many a week,
That fell of old to the miner’s lot ere he ”sighted“ tall Pikes Peak.

’Neath liquid sunshine filling the air, ’mid masses of wild flowers gay,
A prairie waggon followed the track that led o’er the plains away;
And most of those ’neath its canvas roof were of lawless type and rude—
Miners, broad-chested and strongly built, a reckless, gold-seeking brood.

Yet two of the number surely seemed most strangely out of place,
A girl with fragile, graceful form, shy look, and beauteous face,
One who had wrought out the old, old tale, left her home and friends for aye,
Braved family frowns and strangers’ smiles, love’s promptings to obey.

And the lover husband at her side no miner rough was he,
If we may believe the shapely hands as a woman’s fair to see;
But his tall, lithe form, so strongly knit, firm mouth and look of pride,
Told of iron will, resolved to win a home for his darling bride.

Tender he was, but the plains were vast, toilsome and tedious the way,
Developing soon the fever germs that within her latent lay,
And daily the velvet azure eyes with a brighter lustre burned,
And the hectic flush of the waxen cheek to a deeper carmine turned.

Oh! dread was the time ’neath that canvas close when she bravely fought for breath,
Fire in her veins, while panting came each laboring painful breath!
At length one eve she clasped his neck, with a wild and wailing cry:
”O, darling, lay me on God’s green earth, ’neath his sun bright clouds to die!“

Mutely the bridegroom caught her up after that touching appeal;
Why refuse her prayer when on her brow was already set death’s seal?
To proffered help and rough words of hope, to protests whispered low,
He murmured, ”Leave us, go on your way! Comrades it must be so.“

Then, in the eyes of those reckless men bright tears were glistening seen,
For in their rugged, though willing, way most kindly had they been;
No selfish fears of sickness dire had they shown by look or word,
For whate’er of good dwelt within each heart that helpless girl had stirred.

They raised a tent, and from their stores they brought the very best,
Whisp’ring of speedy help to come as each clammy hand they pressed.
”Nay, friends,“ he said with a short, sharp laugh, more painful than sob to hear,
”No help send back, for myself and wife must perforce both settle here.“

Then he sat him down, and placed her head on his aching, throbbing breast,
While the sweeping rush of the prairie winds seemed to bring relief and rest,
And her dim eye watched, without a shade of regret or passing pain,
The receding waggon, soon a speck on the wide and boundless plain.

”O Will! on your true and tender heart, happy and calm I die,
For I know our lives, though severed here, will be joined again on high:
One kiss, my husband, loving and loved, one clasp of thy strong kind hand,
One farewell look in thy mournful eyes ere I pass to the Spirit Land!

“But, God! what is this?” she wildly asks with hurried, panting gasp;
Her fingers have touched a weapon of death in her husband’s hand close clasped:
“O, surely, you would not—dare not—go uncalled to your Maker’s sight?”
“Wife, when passes your spirit away, mine, too, shall take its flight.”

It boots not to tell of the loving prayers that welled from that true wife’s heart,
She sued with an angels holy power, a woman’s winning art,
Till that desp’rate man, with quick low sob, his weapon tossed away,
And promised, till came his Maker’s call, on this cheerless earth to stay.

Then sunshine lit up her wan white face and brightened her failing eyes,
Enkindling upon her marble cheek the glow of the sunset skies;
Closer she nestled unto his breast with a smile of childlike bliss;
“Already a foretaste of yon bright Heaven is given me, Will, in this!”

A little while and the lashes drooped, unstirred by life’s faint breath,
Whilst the sweet smile on the perfect lips was sealed, for aye, by Death.
With the second sunset he laid her in her lonely prairie grave,
Then joined a passing miner’s band that a friendly welcome gave.

But as time sped on, all, wond’ring, marked his silent, lonely ways,
And the brooding nature, recking naught for blame, nor mirth, nor praise.
At rudest tasks of the miner’s toil with fevered zeal he wrought,
But to its tempting golden spoils he gave nor word nor thought.

Soon want and toil and autumn rains brought fever in their train,
And Red Rock Camp resounded with delirious moans of pain;
And the healthy shrank from the fevered ones, with hard, unpitying eye,
And, heeding but their selfish fears left the sick, unnursed, to die.

Then unto the stranger in their midst, new hope and vigor came,
Enkindled swift in that nature grand by charity’s ardent flame;
He nursed the sick and buried the dead, by the dying watched, until
The grateful miners blessed the chance that had brought them “Parson Will.”

’Twas thus they named him. Health returned to the stricken camp again.
One victim more the fever claimed—’twas he; nor grief nor pain
Could be discerned in those patient eyes, but they shone with a radiant light
As he whispered: “Joy and gladness come close after the cold dark night;
A few short hours, and from life’s dull chain will my weary heart be free,
Then, Angel Wife, my promise kept, I go to God and thee!”

BOUND FOR CALIFORNIA.

With buoyant heart he left his home for that bright wond’rous land
Where gold ore gleams in countless mines, and gold dust strews the sand;
And youth’s dear ties were riven all, for as wild, as vain, a dream
As the meteor false that leads astray the traveller with its gleam.

Vainly his father frowned dissent, his mother, tearful, prayed,
Vainly his sisters, with fond words, his purpose would have stayed;
He heard them all with heedless ear, with dauntless heart and bold—
Whisp’ring to soothe each yearning fear “I go to win you gold.”

Restless he paced the deck until he saw the sails unfurled
Of the ship which was to bear him to that new and distant world;
And when his comrades stood with him and watched the lessening land,
His clear laugh rose the loudest ’mid that gay gold-seekers’ band.

In changing moods of grief and mirth the ocean way was passed,
And all were weary, when the cry of “Land” was heard at last.
Like birds escaped from thraldom long, the happy, smiling crowd
Thronged to the deck with eager looks, rejoicing long and loud.

Yet one was missing ’mid that band who foremost should have been,
Whose hopeful heart had cheered them oft when winds blew fierce and keen;
And when dead calms or drizzling rains made the ocean way seem long
Had wiled the time with lively tale, with jest, or stirring song.

But a sudden change had come o’er him, his ringing voice was hushed,
The smooth young cheek grew pallid, or, at times, was deeply flushed;
And now he lay in his lonely cot, a prey to sickness drear,
His frame all filled with racking pain—his heart with doubt and fear.

“Oh, raise me up,” he faintly breathed, “that I one glance may win
Of that long looked for promised land I ne’er may enter in;
Till I recall the tender words of friends, well loved of old—
The friends I left without a pang, in idle search for gold.”

The Exile’s prayer was soon obeyed, and round his fevered brow
The cool land breeze is playing, but death’s damps are on it now!
His spirit passed from earth away as Sol’s last dying beams
Lit up the golden Eldorado of all his boyish dreams.

THE GIRL MARTYR.

Upon his sculptured judgment throne the Roman Ruler sate;
His glittering minions stood around in all their gorgeous state;
But proud as were the noble names that flashed upon each shield—
Names known in lofty council halls as well as tented field—
None dared approach to break the spell of deep and silent gloom
That hover’d o’er his haughty brow, like shadow of the tomb.

While still he mused the air was rent with loud and deaf’ning cry,
And angry frown and darker smile proclaimed the victim nigh.
No traitor to his native land, no outlaw fierce was there,
’Twas but a young and gentle girl, as opening rose bud fair,
Who stood alone among those men, so dark and full of guile,
And yet her cheek lost not its bloom, her lips their gentle smile.

At length he spoke, that ruthless chief, in tones both stern and dread:
“Girl! listen! mark me well, or else thy blood be on thy head!
Thou art accused of worshipping Jesus the Nazarene—
Of scorning Rome’s high, mighty Gods,—speak, say if this has been?
I fain would spare thee, for thy name among our own ranks high;
Thine age, thy sex, my pity move, I would not see thee die!

”If thou hast dared at foreign shrine to rashly bend the knee,
Recant thine errors, and thy guilt cancelled at once shall be.“
Undaunted spoke she, ”In His steps unworthy have I trod,
And spurned the idols vain of Rome for Him, the Christian’s God.
I fear not death, however dread the ghastly shape he wear,
He whom I serve will give me strength thy torments all to bear.“

Darker than e’en the darkest cloud became her judge’s brow,
And stern the threats he thundered forth. ”What dost thou dare avow?
Retract thy words, or, by the Gods! I swear that thou shall die!“
Unmoved she met his angry frown—his fierce and flashing eye:
”Nay, I have spoken—hasten now, fulfil thy direful task,
The martyr’s bright and glorious crown is the sole boon I ask.“

Fierce was the struggle raging then within her judge’s breast,
For she, that girl, in tones of love, he once had low addressed;
And lowly as his haughty heart at earthly shrine might bow
He’d loved the being, young and bright, who stood before him now.
With iron might he’d nerved himself to say the words of fate,
To doom to death the girl he sought—but sought in vain—to hate.

Yet now, e’en in the final hour, ’spite of his creed of crime,
His ruthless heart and fierce belief, love triumphed for a time.
”Irene! girl!“ he wildly prayed, ”brave not Rome’s fearful power!
Mad as thou art, she’ll pardon thee, e’en in the eleventh hour;
Cast but one grain of incense on yon bright and sacred fire,
And outraged as thy rulers are, ’twill calm their lawful ire!“

”Bend but thy knee before the shrine where we’ve so often knelt,
Joined in the same pure orisons—the same emotion felt;
Forsake a creed whose very God with scorn was crucified—,
Irene, hear me, and thou It be again my life and pride!“
He pressed the censer in her hand, of which one single throw
Would have restored her all the state, the bliss, that earth might know;

But she, inspired by heavenly grace, the censer dashed aside:
”I’ve said I but believe in Him who on Mount Calvary died!“
He spoke no word, her cruel judge had hurled his glittering dart;
Barbed with relentless rage, it found his victim’s dauntless heart.
She but had time to breathe a prayer that he might be forgiven,
And in that breath her spotless soul had passed from earth to heaven.

CORNELIA’S JEWELS.

Among the haughtiest of her sex, in noble, quiet pride,
Cornelia stood, with mien that seemed their folly vain to chide:
No jewels sparkled on her brow, so high, so purely fair,
No gems were mingled ’mid her waves of dark and glossy hair;
And yet was she, amidst them all, despite their dazzling mien,
A woman in her gentle grace—in majesty a queen.

While some now showed their flashing gems with vain, exulting air,
And others boasted of their toys, their trinkets rich and rare,
And challenged her to treasures bring that shone with equal light,
Proudly she glanced her dark eye o’er the store of jewels bright.
”Rich as these are,“ she answered then, ”and dazzling as they shine,
They cannot for one hour compete in beauty rare with mine!

“You all seem doubtful, and a smile of scorn your features wear,
Look on my gems, and say if yours are but one half as fair?”
The Roman matron proudly placed her children in their sight
Whose brows already bore the seal of intellectual might;
She pressed them to her, whilst each trait with radiance seemed to shine,
And murmur’d, “Tell me, dare you say, your jewels outshine mine?”

ST. FRANCIS OF BORGIA BY THE COFFIN OF QUEEN ISABEL.

“Open the coffin and shroud until
  I look on the dead again
Ere we place her in Grenada’s vaults,
  Where sleep the Monarchs of Spain;
For unto King Charles must I swear
  That I myself have seen
The regal brow of the royal corpse,
  Our loved, lamented Queen.”

The speaker was Borgia, Gaudia’s Duke,
  A noble and gallant knight,
Whose step was welcome in courtly halls,
  As his sword was keen in fight.
To him had his Monarch given the task
  Of conveying to the tomb.
The Princess ravished from his arms
  In the pride of youthful bloom.

While they slowly raised the coffin lid,
  Borgia stood silent by,
Recalling the beauty of the dead
  With low, half-uttered sigh—
Longing to look on that statue fair
  That wanted but life’s warm breath,
That matchless form which he hoped to find
  Beautiful e’en in death.

’Tis done, and with silent, rev’rent step
  To the coffin draws he near,
And sadly looks in its depths, where lies
  Spain’s Queen, his sovereign dear.
But what does he see? What horrors drear
  Are those that meet his eye,
For he springs aside and shades his brow
  With a sharp, though stifled, cry?

Ah’ youth and beauty, in spirit gaze
  On what that coffin holds—
On the fearful object that now lies
  In the shroud’s white ample folds:
Nay, turn not away with loathing look,
  Lest that hideous sight you see,
In a few short years from now, alas!
  It is what we all shall be.

Let us learn as Francis Borgia learned,
  By that lifeless form of clay,
To despise the changing things of earth,
  All doomed to swift decay—
Deep into his heart the lesson sank,
  Effacing earthly taint,
And Spain’s Court lost a gallant knight,
  While the Church gained a Saint!

ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AT THE CHAPEL OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAT.

’Tis midnight, and solemn darkness broods
  In a lonely, sacred fane—
The church of Our Lady of Montserrat,
  So famous throughout all Spain;
For countless were the pilgrim hosts
  Who knelt at that sacred shrine
With aching hearts, that came to seek
  Relief and grace divine.

Pure as the light of the evening star
  Shines the lamp’s pale, solemn ray,
That burns through midnight’s hush and gloom,
  As well as the glare of day,
Like the Christian soul, enwrapped in God,
  Resigning each vain delight,
Each earthly lure, to burn and shine
  With pure love in His sight.

Softly the gentle radiance falls
  On a mail-clad warrior there,
Who humbly bows his stately head
  In silent, earnest prayer;
It flashes back from his corslet bright,
  From each shining steel clad hand,
And the brow which tells that he was born
  To pomp and high command.

Say, who is he, that vigil keeps,
  Like the warrior knights of old,
Through the long lone hours of the silent night,
  Ere they donned their spurs of gold?
A soldier brave and proud is he,
  And bears a noble name,
Since Pampeluna’s glorious day
  Won Loyola his fame.

What doth he at this lowly shrine?
  What mean those prayers and sighs,
The tearful mist that dims the light
  Of his flashing, eagle eyes?
They tell of life’s vain pomps and pride
  Esteemed as worthless dross,
For the dauntless soldier has become
  The soldier of the Cross.

That sword, that once like lightning swept
  Through ranks of foes hard pressed,
Now hangs beside Our Lady’s shrine,
  Henceforth in peace to rest,—
And soon the penitent’s rough, dark robe,
  His girdle and cowl of gloom,
Will replace the soldier’s armor bright,
  And his lofty, waving plume.

Well done, well done, thou warrior brave!
  A noble choice is thine!
What are the laurels of earth beside
  The joys of bliss divine?
And thou hast won, though seeking not,
  The saint’s undying fame—
Christ’s Holy Church will evermore
  Revere and bless thy name!

CHARLES VII AND JOAN OF ARC AT RHEIMS.

A glorious pageant filled the church of the proud old city of Rheims,
One such as poet artists choose to form their loftiest themes:
There France beheld her proudest sons grouped in a glittering ring,
To place the crown upon the brow of their now triumphant king.

The full, rich tones of music swelled out on the perfumed air,
And chosen warriors, gaily decked, emblazoned banners bear:
Jewels blazed forth, and silver bright shone armor, shield and lance,
Of princes, peers, and nobles proud, the chivalry of France.

The object of these honors high, on lowly bended knee,
Before the altar homage paid to the God of Victory;
Whilst Renaud Chartres prayed that Heaven might blessings shower down
On that young head on which he now was chosen to place a crown.

Fair was the scene, but fairer far than pomp of church or state,
Than starry gems or banners proud, or trappings of the great,
Was the maiden frail whose prophet glance from heaven seemed to shine,
Who, in her mystic beauty, looked half mortal, half divine.

Her slight form cased in armor stern, the Maid of Orleans stood,
Her place a prouder one than that of prince of royal blood:
With homage deep to Heaven above, and prayers to Notre Dame,
She waived above the monarch’s head proud Victory’s Oriflamme.

Then, as the clouds of incense rose, encircling in its fold
That shining form, the kneeling king, the canopy of gold,
It seemed unto the gazers there a scene of magic birth,
Such as is rarely granted to the children of this earth.

Sudden a mystic sadness steals o’er Joan’s features bright,
Robbing her brow, her earnest eyes, of their unearthly light:
A voice from Him, by whose right arm her victories had been won,
Had whispered, ’bove the clank of steel, “Thy mission now is done.”

Perchance the future, then, was shown to her pure spirit’s gaze,
The future with its sufferings, the shame, the scaffold’s blaze;
The deaf’ning shouts, the surging crowd, the incense, mounting high,
Foreshadowed to her shrinking soul the death she was to die.

The youthful monarch now was crowned, and lowly at his feet
Did France’s saviour bend her form, rendering homage meet.
No guerdon for past deeds of worth sought that young noble heart,
She, who might all rewards have claimed, asked only to depart.

Oh! France! of all the stoned names that deck thy history’s page,
Thy sainted kings, thy warriors proud, thy statesmen stern and sage,
None, none received the glorious light, the strange Promethean spark
That Heaven vouchsafed thy spotless maid, immortal Joan of Arc!

THE FOUR WISHES.

“Father!” a youthful hero said, bending his lofty brow
“On the world wide I must go forth—then bless me, bless me, now!
And, ere I shall return oh say, what goal must I have won—
What is the aim, the prize, that most thou wishest for thy son?”

Proudly the father gazed upon his bearing brave and high,
The dauntless spirit flashing forth from his dark brilliant eye:
“My son, thou art the eldest hope of a proud honored name,
Then, let thy guiding star through life—thy chief pursuit—be fame!”

“’Tis well! thou’st chosen, father, well—it is a glorious part!”
And the youth’s glance told the wish chimed well with that brave ardent heart.
“Now, brother, thou’lt have none to share thy sports till I return,—
Say, what shall be the glitt’ring prize that I afar must earn?”

“The world,” said the laughing boy, “on heroes poor looks cold,
If thou art wise as well as brave, return with store of gold.”
“Perchance thou’rt right!” and now he turned to his sister young and fair,
Braiding with skill a glossy tress of his own raven hair.

“’Tis now thy turn, sweet sister mine, breathe thy heart’s wish to me,
If I’ve the power, ’twill be fulfilled, ere I return to thee.”
The maiden blushed and whispring low, “I prize not wealth or pride,
But, brother, to thy future home bring back a gentle bride.”

The merry smile her words had raised fled, as with falt’ring voice,
He asked of her, the best beloved, “Mother, what is thy choice?”
“My son! my son!” she softly said, “hear my wish ere we part—
Return as now thou goest forth, with true and guileless heart!”

       *       *       *       *       *

The years sped on with rapid flight, and to his home once more
The soldier came: he walked not with the buoyant step of yore;
The eagle eye was sunken, dim, the curls of glossy hair
Fell careless round an aching brow, once free from shade of care.

His soiled and shattered crest he laid low at his father’s feet,
And sadly said, “’Tis all I have—is it an off’ring meet?
In battle’s front I madly fought, till dead on dead were heaped,
Want, weariness and pain I’ve borne, and yet no fame I’ve reaped.

“Brother, thou told’st me to return with treasures like a king;
This hacked and dinted sword and shield is all the wealth I bring.
Sister, I wooed a lady bright with eyes like thine, and hair,—
I woke from wild and dazzling dreams to find her false as fair!

“Now, mother, unto thee I turn! say, say, wilt though repine
If I tell thee that those cherished hopes have all proved vain but thine?
Though folly may have swayed awhile this heart since last we met—
Still, mother, at thy feet, I swear, ’tis true and stainless yet!

“No aim has ever ruled it that thou might’st not calmly see—
Nor hope nor thought, dear mother, that I’d shrink to bare to thee!”
“Bless thee, mine own one, for those words! thrice dearer art thou now
Than if thine hands were filled with gems, and laurels twined thy brow!

“And dearer is thy still fond smile, tho’ dimmed its brightness be,
Than that of fairest bride to glad our home with witching glee!”
With all a mother’s yearning love, she strained him to her heart,
And in that fond embrace he felt her’s was “the better part.”

THE SOLDIER’S DEATH.

The day was o’er, and in their tent the weaned victors met,
In wine and social gaiety the carnage to forget.
The merry laugh and sparkling jest, the pleasant tale were there—
Each heart was free and gladsome then, each brow devoid of care.

Yet one was absent from the board who ever was the first
In every joyous, festive scene, in every mirthful burst;
He also was the first to dare each perilous command,
To rush on danger—yet was he the youngest of the band.

Upon the battle-field he lay a damp and fearful grave;
His right hand grasped the cherished flag—the flag he died to save;
While the cold stars shone calmly down on heaps of fallen dead,
And their pale light a halo cast round that fair sleeper’s head.

Say, was there none o’er that young chief to shed one single tear,
To sorrow o’er the end of his untimely stopt career?
Yes, but alas! the boundless sea its foam and crested wave,
Lay then between those beings dear and his cold, cheerless grave.

With all a mother’s doting love a mother yearned for him,
And watching for his quick return, a sister’s eye grew dim,
And, dearer still, a gentle girl, his fair affianced bride,—
And yet, with all these loving ones, unfriended, had he died.

No woman’s low, sweet voice was near one soothing word to say
Or gentle hand from his cold brow to wipe the damps away;
But yet why should we grieve for him, that hero gallant, brave?
His was a soldier’s glorious death, a soldier’s glorious grave!

THE HUNTER AND HIS DYING STEED.

  “Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day,
  That cost thy life, my gallant grey!”—Scott

The Hunter stooped o’er his dying steed
  With sad dejected mien,
And softly stroked its glossy neck,
  Lustrous as silken sheen;
With iron will and nerve of steel,
  And pale lips tight compressed,
He kept the tears from eyes that long
  Were strange to such a guest.

Thou’rt dying now, my faithful one,
  Alas! ’tis easy known—
Thy neck would arch beneath my touch,
  Thou’dst brighten at my tone;
But turn not thus thy restless eyes
  Upon my saddened brow,
Nor look with such imploring gaze—
  I cannot help thee now.

No more we’ll bound o’er dew gemmed sward
  At break of summer morn,
Or follow on, through forests green,
  The hunter’s merry horn;
No more we’ll brave the rapid stream,
  Nor battle with the tide,
Nor cross the slipp’ry mountain path,
  As we were wont to ride.

Oh! we have travelled many miles,
  And dangers have we braved;
And more than once thy matchless speed
  Thy master’s life hath saved;
And many nights the forest sward
  Has been the couch we’ve pressed,
Where, pillowed on thy glossy neck,
  Most sweet has been my rest.

How often, too, I we shared with thee
  The hunter’s scanty fare.
To see thee suffer want or pain,
  Mute friend I could not bear;
And now, thou best in agony,
  As if thy heart would burst,
And I, what can I do for thee,
  Save slake thy burning thirst?

That parting sob, that failing glance—
  The pains of death are past!
Thy glazing eyes still turned on me
  With love unto the last!
Well may my tears o’er thy cold form,
  My steed, flow fast and free,
For, oh! I have had many friends,
  Yet none so true as thee!

THE WOOD FAIRY’S WELL.

“Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden,
  Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array,
Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden,
  And birds make sweet music throughout the long day.
Each step thou hast taken has been over flowers,
  Of forms full of beauty—of perfumes most rare,
Why comest thou home, then, with footsteps so weary,
  No smiles on thy lip, and no buds in thy hair?”

“Ah! my walk through the wild-wood has been full of sadness,
  My thoughts were with him who there oft used to rove,
That stranger with bright eyes and smiles full of gladness
  Who first taught my young heart the power of love.
He had promised to come to me ere the bright summer
  With roses and sunshine had decked hill and lea.
I, simple and trusting, believed in that promise,
  But summer has come, and, alas! where is he?”

“Yes, simple and trusting—ah! child, the old story!
  Say, when will thy sex learn that man can forget?
Thy lover was highborn, and thou art but lowly,
  Ere this he’s forgotten that ever you met;
But, methought, as I watch’d thee to-day slowly treading
  With step full of sadness yon green shady dell,
Thou didst pause by the brink of its bright crystal treasure,
  Say, what didst thou see in our Wood Fairy’s Well?”

“No sparkles of promise for me gemmed its surface,
  I saw that the rose from my cheek had nigh fled,
That the eyes whose light he never weaned of praising,
  Are dimmed by the tears that I for him have shed;
And I felt as I gazed that it would be far better,
  E’en though I might grieve to my heart’s inmost core,
That he should forget than, returning to seek me,
  Should find me thus changed, and then love me no more.”

“What! love thee no more!—say, to love thee forever!
  See, true to my vows, I am here by thy side,
Quick to bear thee away to a fair home of splendor,
  To reign there its mistress, my own gentle bride!”
Oh! moment of bliss to that girl heart, grief laden,
  The lover so mourned for, no ingrate had grown,
Despite absence and change he stood there by the maiden,
  With faith still unshaken and true as her own.

THE WREATH OF FOREST FLOWERS.

In a fair and sunny forest glade
  O’erarched with chesnuts old,
Through which the radiant sunbeams made
  A network of bright gold,
A girl smiled softly to herself,
  And dreamed the hours away;
Lulled by the sound of the murmuring brook
  With the summer winds at play.

Jewels gleamed not in the tresses fair
  That fell in shining showers,
Naught decked that brow of beauty rare
  But a wreath of forest flowers;
And the violet wore no deeper blue
  Than her own soft downcast eye,
Whilst her bright cheek with the rose’s hue
  In loveliness well might vie.

But she was too fair to bloom unknown
  By forest or valley side,
And long ere two sunny years had flown,
  The girl was a wealthy bride—
Removed to so high and proud a sphere
  That she well at times might deem
The humble home of her childhood dear
  A fleeting, changeful dream.

No more her foot sought the grassy glade
  At the break of summer day;
No more neath the chesnut spreading shade
  In reverie sweet she lay;
But in abodes of wealth and pride,
  With serious, stately mien,
That envy’s rancorous tongue defied,
  She now alone was seen.

But was she happier? Who might know?
  Wealth, fortune, on her smiled;
Yet there were some who whispered low
  That she, fates favored child,
Oft pressed her brow with a weary hand,
  In gay and festive hours,
And fain would change her jewell’d band
  For a wreath of forest flowers.

THE VILLAGE GIRL AND HER HIGH BORN SUITOR.

“O maiden, peerless, come dwell with me,
And bright shall I render thy destiny:
Thou shalt leave thy cot by the green hillside,
To dwell in a palace home of pride,
Where crowding menials, with lowly mien,
Shall attend each wish of their lovely queen.”

“Ah! stranger my cot by the green hillside
Hath more charms for me than thy halls of pride;
If the roof be lowly, the moss rose there
Rich fragrance sheds on the summer air;
And the birds and insects, with joyous song,
Are more welcome far than a menial throng.”

“Child, tell me not so! too fair art thou,
With thy starry eyes and thy queenlike brow,
To dwell in this spot, sequestered and lone,
Thy marvelous beauty to all unknown;
And that form, which might grace a throne, arrayed
In the lowly garb of a peasant maid.”

“Nay, a few short days since didst thou not say
That I in my rustic kirtle gray
In thine eyes looked lovelier fairer far
Than robed in rich state as court ladies are;
And the wreath of violets in my hair
Pleased thee more than diamond or ruby rare.”

“Beloved! if thus coldly thou turn’st aside
From the tempting lures of wealth and pride,
Sure thy woman’s heart must some pity own
For one who breathes for thy self alone,
And who would brave suffering, grief and toil
To win from thy rose lips one shy, sweet smile.”

“Ah! enough of this—thy love may be true,
But I have tried friends who love me too;
And in proud homes governed by fashion’s voice,
Thou would’st learn to blush for thy lowly choice.
Go, seek thee a noble, a high born bride,
And leave me my cot by the green hillside!”

THE LADY OF RATHMORE HALL.

Throughout the country for many a mile
There is not a nobler, statelier pile
  Than ivy crowned Rathmore Hall;
And the giant oaks that shadow the wold,
Though hollowed by time, are not as old
  As its Norman turrets tall.

Let us follow that stream of sunset red,
Crimsoning the portal overhead,
  Stealing through curtaining lace,
Where sits in a spacious and lofty room
Full of gems of art—exotics in bloom—
  The Lady of the place.

If Rathmore Hall is with praises named,
Not less is its queen-like mistress famed
  For wondrous beauty and grace;
And as she reclines there, calmly now,
The sunset flush on her ivory brow,
  We marvel at form and face.

Wondrously perfect, peerlessly fair,
Are the mouth and the eyes and luxuriant hair,
  As lily she’s graceful and fall;
Not florid full is that lady fair
But pale and high-bred, with just the air
  That is suited to Rathmore Hall.

Health, youth, and loveliness on her smile,
Her abode that noble and ancient pile,
  She, surely, must happy be—
(With each wish fulfilled that wealth can fulfil,
For as if by magic is wrought her will)
  A moment wait—we shall see!

At length she moves and heavily sighs,
While wearily rest her violet eyes
  On her jewels richly wrought;
Shuddering, she turns away her gaze
From flashing diamond and ruby’s blaze,
  As she whispers, “Too dearly bought!”

Then, slowly rising, the casement nears,
And looking abroad through a mist of tears
  Sighs: “Yes, I have earned it all:
Crushed a manly heart that too truly loved,
False to my. vows and to honor proved,
  To be Lady of Rathmore Hall.

“What are now its broad rich acres to me,
Stretching out as far as my gaze can see?
  With loathing I turn from the scene;
My womanhood wasting in wild regret
O’er a past that I would, but cannot, forget;
  O’er a life that might have been!

“Oh! for the humble, dear home of my youth,
Its loving warm hearts, its unsullied truth,
  Its freedom from fashion’s thrall.
And the blameless hopes—the bliss that was mine
Ere awoke in my heart a wish to shine
  As Lady of Rathmore Hall!”

She stops, for, lo! in the chamber still,
Loud barking of hounds and harsh accents fill
  The quiet and dreamy air;
Swearing at menials—with lowering brow,
Earl Rathmore, entering her presence now,
  Turns on her an angry stare.

A shudder runs through her—what does it tell?
A look in her eyes that not there should dwell—
  She hates him—his wedded wife!
Surely angels grieve in their bliss above
To see, where there should be perfect love,
  Disunion—unholy strife.

With an oath he mutters “Still moping, eh!
From hour to hour and day to-day;
  Not for this from thy lowly state—
Enticed by the beauty I’m weary of now,
And smiles that have fled from thy sullen brow—
  I made thee a Rathmore’s mate.”

With no word from her lips she to him replies,
But the shadow deepens within her eyes,
  And she smiles in cold disdain;
Yet her snowy eyelids haughty droop,
And the calm, that disdains to his will to stoop,
  Mask an aching heart and brain.

With a muttered curse, in still harsher tone,
He passes out, and thus leaves her alone
  In her rich and gilded gloom
Ah, no wretched wife through the whole broad land
Is as weary of life as that lady grand
  As she sits in that splendid room.

If a daughter’s soft arms should ever twine,
Lady Rathmore, round that white neck of thine,
  Teach her not to barter all
The guileless love of her innocent youth,
Her premised vows and maidenly truth,
  For another Rathmore Hall.

THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ARNO.

’Tis no wild and wond’rous legend, but a simple pious tale
Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale,
Near where Arno’s glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and play
As they mirror back the vineyards through which they take their way.

She was in the rosy dawning of girlhood fair and bright,
And, like morning’s smiles and blushes, was she lovely to the sight;
Soft cheeks like sea-shells tinted and radiant hazel eyes;
But on changing earthly lover were not lavished smiles or sighs.

Still, that gentle heart was swelling with a love unbounded, true,
Such as worldly breast, earth harden’d, passion-wearied, never knew;
And each day she sought the chapel of Our Lady in the dell,
There to seek an hour’s communing with the Friend she loved so well.

Often, too, she brought a garland of wild flowers, fragrant, fair,
Which she culled whilst onward leading her flock with patient care;
The diamond dew-drops clinging to every petal sweet,—
For the mystic Rose of Heaven was it not a tribute meet?

The white statue of the Virgin boasted neither crown nor gem;
On its head she placed her chaplet instead of diadem,
Murm’ring, “O, my gentle Mother, would that it were in my power
To give Thee pearl or diamond instead of simple flower!”

But for earth she was too winsome, that fair child of faith and love,
One of those whom God culls early for His gardens bright above;
And the hand of sickness touched her till she faded day by day,
And to Our Lady’s chapel she came no more to pray.

One evening, in the valley, after journeying many a mile,
Two pious men in holy garb lay down to rest a while,
And in sleep to both a vision of most wond’rous beauty came,
Such as only visit souls which burn with heav’nly love’s pure flame.

Amid clouds of golden brightness they saw to earth float down
A band of fair young virgins, wearing each a glittering crown;
And surpassing them in beauty, as the day outshines the night,
Was high Heaven’s regal Mistress—Our Lady, fair and bright.

Then the pious brothers knew at once that she was on her way
To see a dying maiden, and her love through life repay;
And when, from slumber waking, they told their vision true,
They said: “Let us go visit this child of Mary, too!”

High instinct lent by Heaven guided on their feet aright,
And in silence grave they journeyed till a cottage came in sight;
’Neath its humble porch they entered, with bow’d and reverent head,
And found themselves in presence of the peaceful, holy dead.

Oh! most fair the sight! No maiden with bridal wreath on brow
Ever looked one half so lovely as the one they gazed on now;
As a lily, fair and spotless, bright and pure each feature shone,
Bearing impress of that Heaven to which Mary’s child had gone.

THE TWO BIRTH NIGHTS.

Bright glittering lights are gleaming in yonder mansion proud,
And within its walls are gathered a gemmed and jewelled crowd;
Robes of airy gauze and satin, diamonds and rubies bright,
Rich festoons of glowing flowers—truly ’tis a wondrous sight.

Time and care and gold were lavished that it might be, every way,
The success of all the season—brilliant fashionable gay.
’Tis the birth night of the heiress of this splendor wealth and state,
The sole child, the only darling, of a household of the great.

Now the strains of the fast galop on the perfumed air arise,
Rosy cheeks are turning carmine, brighter grow the brightest eyes,
As the whirling crowds of dancers pass again and yet again—
Girls coquettish, silly women, vapid and unmeaning men.

’Tis a scene to fill the thoughtful with a silent, vague dismay,
And from its unholy magic we are fain to steal away;
Out here in the quiet moonlight we may pause awhile and rest,
Whilst the solemn stars of heaven bring back peace unto our breast.

Soft! who is the fair young being—she who nightly joins us now,
In a robe of airy lightness, and with jewels on her brow,
Fair as the most fair ideal dreaming poet e’er inspired,
Or as lover, charmed by beauty, ever worshipped and admired.

Strange! what means that look so weary, that long-drawn and painful sigh;
And that gaze, intense and yearning, fixed upon the starlit sky?
Is she not the child of fortune, fortune’s pet and darling bright,
Yes, the beauteous, courted heiress—heroine of the gala night?

From the crowds of ardent lovers, who would beset her way,
Sickened by their whispered flatt’ries, she has coldly turned away;
And, as now the thrilling music falls upon her wearied ear,
She cannot resist a shudder, caused by mingled hate and fear.

“This is pleasure, then,” she murmurs; this is what the world calls bliss,
Oh! for objects less unworthy, for a holier life than this!
I am weary of its folly. O, Great Father, grant my boon:
“From its sinful, silken meshes, I pray Thee, free me soon!”

Did He answer? Now another year has passed with rapid flight,—
O’er the crowded, silent city broods the spirit of the night;
In the sick wards of the convent, fever-stricken, gasping, lies,
One with death’s damps on his brow, and its film o’er his eyes.

There beside him kneels a Sister, in coarse dusky robe and veil,
And with gentle care she moistens those poor lips so dry and pale;
Now she whispers hope and courage, now she tells of Heaven bright—
Thus it is the gentle heiress celebrates her next birth-night.

Not a trace of weary languor rests upon that ivory brow,
No vague sigh of restless yearning e’er escapes her bosom now;
Yet more fair and happy looks she, in that simple garb I ween,
Than when, robed in lace and jewels, she was called a ballroom’s queen.

THE YOUNG GREEK ODALISQUE.

’Mid silken cushions, richly wrought, a young Greek girl reclined,
And fairer form the harem’s walls had ne’er before enshrined;
’Mid all the young and lovely ones who round her clustered there,
With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, she shone supremely fair.

’Tis true that orbs as dark as hers in melting softness shone,
And lips whose coral hue might vie in brightness with her own;
And forms as light as ever might in Moslem’s heaven be found,
So full of beauty’s witching grace, were lightly hovering round.

Yet, oh, how paled their brilliant charms before that beauteous one
Who, ’mid their gay mirth, silent sat, from all apart—alone,
Outshining all, not by the spells of lovely face or form,
But by the soul that shone through all, her peerless, priceless charm.

But, say, what were the visions sweet that filled that gentle heart?
Surely to Azof, her liege lord, was given the greatest part,—
To him who prized her smiles beyond the power his sceptre gave,
And, mighty sultan though he was, to her was as a slave.

No, not of crowned heads thought she then, of hall or gilded dome,
But of fair Greece, that classic land, her loved, her early home.
She yearns to see again its skies, proud temples, woodland flowers,
Less bright, but dearer far, than those that bloom in harem bowers.

She glanced upon the jewels rich that gemmed her shining hair,
And wreathed her sculptured, snowy arms, her neck and brow so fair.
Their lustre softened not the pangs that filled that lonely hour,
More happy was she when her braids were decked with simple flower.

But, Azof, did not thought of him some passing joy impart;
Did not the memory of his love bring gladness to her heart?
Alas, that long and heavy sigh, the glitt’ring tear that fell
From ’neath her dark and drooping lids, told more than words could tell.

Awhile she weeps, and then a change steals o’er her mournful dream,
Her gloomy thoughts are chased away, and all things brighter seem,
A timid and yet blissful smile lights up her beauteous brow,
Her soft cheek crimsons, but, oh’ not of Azof thinks she now.

Perchance of some gallant Greek she knew in life’s young hour,
Some childish love as guileless as her love for bird or flower,
But which, looked back on through the mist of absence or of time,
Seemed sad and sweet as are the words—of some old childish rhyme.

Could he, her royal lover, now but look into her heart,
And read its depths, how sharp the pang that knowledge would impart,
But no, secure in certain bliss, he deems her all his own,
And prides himself that girlish heart loves him and him alone.

The sadness which might have awaked suspicion or mistrust,
Was of the spells she swayed him by, the dearest and the first,—
He deemed it but the token of a timid gentle heart,
That ever kept from needless show or noisy mirth apart.

He knew not that the voice which now sang but some mournful lay
Breathed once the soul of joyousness, was gayest of the gay,
That the soft laugh whose magic power his very heart strings stirred,
Though now so rare, in girlhood’s home had oftentimes been heard!

Th’ averted head, the timid look the half unwilling ear,
With which she met his vows of love, he deemed but girlish fear,
Nor ever dreamed that she whom all considered as thrice blessed,
Whose life was like a summer day loved, honored and caressed;

Who held, a captive to her charms, a most accomplished knight
And monarch brave that ever yet had bowed to woman’s might
Was but a poor and joyless slave, compelled to wear a smile
And act a part for which she loathed her wretched self the while.

But, like some fair exotic brought unto a foreign strand,
She lost her bloom and pined to see once more her native land,
And only when from earthly scenes death summoned her to part
A blissful smile played round her lips, and peace was in her heart.