80

YOU REMEMBER THE MAID.

And your heart can recall-and mine often goes back, With a sigh and a tear, to-the hours

When we gazed on her form, as she followed the track Of the butterfly's wing through the flowers ;

When, in her young joy, she would smile, with delight,
On its plumage of mingling dyes,

Till she let it go free,—and looked after its flight,
To see if it entered the skies!

But she wandered away from the home of her youth,

One spring, ere the roses were blown!

For she fancied the world was a temple of truth,
And she measured all hearts by her own!—

She fed on a vision, and lived on a dream,

And she followed it over the wave;

And she sought-where the moon has a milder gleam,

For a home.--and they gave her a grave!

There was one whom she loved, though she breathed

And he said he loved her, but he left her alone,
With the worm of despair on her heart!

And oh with what anguish we counted, each day,

The roses that died on her cheek,

And hung o'er her form, as it faded away,

And wept for the beautiful wreck !

Yet her eye was as mild and as blue, to the last,

Though shadows stole over its beam;

And her smiles are remembered--since long they are

past!—

Like the smiles we have seen in a dream!

And it may be that fancy had woven a spell,

But I think, though her tones were as clear,

They were somewhat more soft, and their murmurings

fell

Like a dirge, on the listening ear!

And, while sorrow threw round her a holier grace,
-Though she always was gentle and kind!--

82

YOU REMEMBER THE MAID.

Yet, I thought that the softness which stole o'er her face,

Had a softening power on her mind !___

But, it might be her looks and her tones were more dear,
And we valued them more, in decay,

As we treasure the last fading flower of the year,
-For we felt she was passing away!

She never complained, but she loved to the last!

And the tear in her beautiful eye

Often told that her thoughts were gone back to the past,

And the youth who had left her to die!

--But mercy came down, and the maid is at rest,

Where the palm-tree sighs o'er her at even;

And the dew that weeps over the turf on her breast,
Is the tear of a far-foreign heaven!

STANZAS.

AWAY-AWAY! AND BEAR THY BREAST.

AWAY-away! and bear thy breast

To some more pleasant strand!

Why did it pitch its tent of rest

Within a desert land!

Though clouds may dim thy distant skies,

And love look dark before thee,

Yet colder hearts and falser eyes
Have flung their shadows o'er thee!

It is, at least, a joy to know
That thou hast felt the worst,
And-if for thee no waters flow,-

Thou never more shalt thirst!

84

AWAY-AWAY! AND BEAR THY BREAST.

Go forward, like a free-born child,

Thy chains and weakness past,

Thou hast thy manna in the wild,
Thy Pisgah, at the last!

And yet, those far and forfeit bowers

Will rise, in after years,

The flowers, and one who nursed the flowers,
With smiles that turned to tears;

And I shall see her holy eye,

In visions of the night,

As her youthful form goes stealing by,
The beautiful and bright!

But I must wake, to bear along
A bruised and buried heart,
And smile amid the smiling throng

With whom I have no part;

To watch for hopes that may not bud

Amid my spirit's gloom,

Till He, who flowered the prophet's rod,
Shall bid them burst to bloom!