A queen? Earth's regal moons have set.
Where perished Marie Antoinette?
Where's Bordeaux's mother? Where the jet-
Black Haytian dame?
And Lusitania's coronet?
And Angoulême ?
Empires to-day are upside down,
The castle kneels before the town,
The monarch fears a printer's frown
A brickbat's range;
Give me, in preference to a crown,
Five shillings change.
"But her who asks, though first among
The good, the beautiful, the young,
The birthright of a spell more strong
Than these hath brought her;
She is your kinswoman in song,
A Poet's daughter."
A Poet's daughter? Could I claim
The consanguinity of fame,
Veins of my intellectual frame!
Your blood would glow
Proudly to sing that gentlest name
Of aught below.
A Poet's daughter-dearer word
Lip hath not spoke nor listener heard,
Fit theme for song of bee and bird
From morn till even,
And wind-harp by the breathing stirred
My spirit's wings are weak, the fire
Poetic comes but to expire,
Her name needs not my humble lyre
To bid it live;
She hath already from her sire
All bard can give.
TO LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK.
I'VE greeted many a bonny bride
On many a bridal day,
In homes serene and summer-skied,
Where Love's spring-buds, with joy and pride,
Had blossomed into May;
But ne'er on lovelier bride than thine
Looked these delighted eyes of mine,
And ne'er in happier bridal bower
Than hers smiled rose and orange-flower
Through green leaves glad and gay,
When bridesmaids, grouped around her room
In youth's, in truth's, in beauty's bloom,
Entwined, with merry fingers fair,
Their garlands in her sunny hair;
Or bosomed them, with graceful art,
Above the beatings of her heart.
I well remember, as I stood
Among the pleasant multitude,
A stranger, mateless and forlorn,
Pledged bachelor and hermit sworn,
That, when the holy voice had given,
In consecrated words of power,
The sanction of approving Heaven
To marriage-ring, and roof, and dower;
When she, a Wife, in matron pride,
Stood, life-devoted, at thy side;
When happy lips had pressed her cheek,
And happiest lips her "bonny mou","
And she had smiled with blushes meek
On my congratulating bow,
A sunbeam, balmy with delight,
Entranced, subdued me, till I quite
Forgot my anti-nuptial vow,
And almost asked, with serious brow
And voice of true and earnest tone,
The bridesmaid with the prettiest face
To take me, heart and hand, and grace
A wedding of my own.
Time's years, it suits me not to say
How many, since that joyous day,
Have watched and cheered thee on thy way
O'er Duty's chosen path severe,
And seen thee, heart and thought full-grown,
Tread manhood's thorns and tempters down,
And win, like Pythian charioteer,
The wreaths and race-cups of renown—
Seen thee, thy name and deeds, enshrined
Within the peerage-book of mind-
And seen my morning prophecy
Truth-blazoned on a noonday sky,
That he whose worth could win a wife
Lovely as thine, at life's beginning,
Would always wield the power, through life,
Of winning all things worth the winning.
Hark! there are songs on Summer's breeze, And dance and song in Summer's trees, And choruses of birds and bees
In Air, their world of happy wings;
What far-off minstrelsy, whose tone
And words are sweeter than their own,
Has waked these cordial welcomings?
'Tis nearer now, and now more near,
And now rings out like clarion clear.
They come the merry bells of Fame!
They come to glad me with thy name,
And, borne upon their music's sea,
From wave to wave melodiously,
Glad tidings bring of thine and thee.
They tell me that, Life's tasks well done,
Ere shadows mark thy westering sun,
Thy bark has reached a quiet shore,
And rests, with slumbering sail and oar,
Fast anchor.d near a cottage door,
Thy home of pleasantness and peace,
Of Love, with eyes of heaven's blue,
And Health, with cheek of rose's hue,
And Riches, with "the Golden Fleece:"
Where she, the Bride, a Mother now,
Encircled round with sons and daughters, Waits my congratulary bow
To greet her cottage woods and waters;
And thou art proving, as in youth,
By daily kindnesses, the truth
And wisdom of the Scottish rhyme-
"To make a happy fireside clime
For children and for wife,
Is the true pathos and sublime,
And green and gold of Life.
From long-neglected garden-bowers
Come these, my songs' memorial flowers;
With greetings from my heart, they come
To seek the shelter of thy home.
Though faint their hues, and brief their bloom, And all unmeet for gorgeous room
Of "honour, love, obedience,
And troops of friends," like thine,
I hope thou wilt not banish thence
These few and fading flowers of mine,
But let their theme be their defence,
The love, the joy, the frankincense,
And fragrance o' Lang Syne.
JAMES GATES PERCIVAL
[Born in 1795, died towards 1865. A physician, and a man of extensive scientific and linguistic acquirements].
HAIL to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast;
The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever bled,
Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed,
A fearless host:
No slave is here; our unchained feet
Walk freely as the waves that beat
Our coast.
Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave
To seek this shore;
They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living grave;
With hearts unbent and spirits brave,
They sternly bore
Such toils as meaner souls had quelled;
But souls like these such toils impelled
To soar.
Hail to the morn when first they stood
On Bunker's height,
And fearless stemmed the invading flood,
And wrote our dearest rights in blood,
And mowed in ranks the hireling brood
In desperate fight!
Oh 'twas a proud, exulting day,
For even our fallen fortunes lay
There is no other land like thee,
No dearer shore;
Thou art the shelter of the free;
The home, the port of Liberty,
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,
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