Who saw the future on his brow Upon that happy morn?
We are a mighty nation now Because that child was born.
To him, and to his spirit's scope, Besides a glorious home, We owe that what we have and hope Are more than Greece and Rome.
A Bouquet Take first a Cowslip, then an Asphodel, A bridal Rose, some snowy Orange flowers;A Lily next, and by its spotless bell Place the bright Iris, darling of the showers;Set gold Nasturtiums, Elder blooms between, And Heart's-ease to the Orchis marry sweetly;Then with red Pinks, and slips of Evergreen, You will possess -- all folded up discreetly --In one bouquet, that none but you may know, The name I love beyond all names below.
Lines: "I Stooped from Star-Bright Regions"
I stooped from star-bright regions, where Thou canst not enter even in prayer;And thought to light thy heart and hearth With all the poesy of earth.
Oh, foolish hope! those mystic gleams To thee were unsubstantial dreams;The paltry world had made thee blind, And shut thy heart and dulled thy mind.
I was a vassal at thy feet, And cringed more meanly than was meet, And since I dared not to be free, Was scouted as a slave should be.
I gave thee all -- my truth, my trust --I bowed my spirit in the dust, I put a crown upon thy brow, And am its proper victim now.
A Trifle I know not why, but ev'n to me My songs seem sweet when read to thee.
Perhaps in this the pleasure lies --I read my thoughts within thine eyes.
And so dare fancy that my art May sink as deeply as thy heart.
Perhaps I love to make my words Sing round thee like so many birds, Or, maybe, they are only sweet As they seem offerings at thy feet.
Or haply, Lily, when I speak, I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek, Or with a yet more precious bliss, Die on thy red lips in a kiss.
Each reason here -- I cannot tell --Or all perhaps may solve the spell.
But if she watch when I am by, Lily may deeper see than I.
Lines: "I Saw, or Dreamed I Saw, Her Sitting Lone"
I saw, or dreamed I saw, her sitting lone, Her neck bent like a swan's, her brown eyes thrown On some sweet poem -- his, I think, who sings |Oenone, or the hapless Maud: no rings Flashed from the dainty fingers, which held back Her beautiful blonde hair. Ah! would these black Locks of mine own were mingling with it now, And these warm lips were pressed against her brow!
And, as she turned a page, methought I heard --Hush! could it be? -- a faintly murmured word, It was so softly dwelt on -- such a smile Played on her brow and wreathed her lip the while That my heart leaped to hear it, and a flame Burned on my forehead -- Sa'ra! -- 't was my name.
Sonnet: "If I Have Graced No Single Song of Mine"
If I have graced no single song of mine With thy sweet name, they all are full of thee;Thou art my Muse, my "May", my "Madeline":
But "Julia"! -- ah! that gentle name to me Is something far too sacred for the throng Of worldly listeners 'round me. Yet ev'n now I weave a chaplet for thy sinless brow; --Wilt thou not wear it? 'T is a fashionable song, --I will not say of what, -- but on it I Have wreaked heart, mind, my love, my hopes of fame, Yet after all it hath no nobler aim Than thy dear praise. Ere many moons pass by, When the lost gem is set, the crown complete, I'll lay a poet's tribute at thy feet.
To Rosa ----: Acrostic I took a Rosebud from a certain bower, And by its side placed an Orange flower, Then with the Speedwell, blended the perfume And the sweet beauty of an Apple-bloom, And thus, 't is one of the loveliest feats, Is spelled a gentle lady's name in sweets.
Dedication To Fairy Do you recall -- I know you do --A little gift once made to you --A simple basket filled with flowers, All favorites of our Southern bowers?
One was a snowy myrtle-bud, Another blushed as if with blood, A third was pink of softest tinge, Then came a disk with purple fringe.
You took them with a happy smile, And nursed them for a little while, And once or twice perhaps you thought Of the fond messages they brought.
And yet you could not then divine The promise in that gift of mine, --In those bright blooms and odors sweet, I laid this volume at your feet.
At yours, my child, who scarcely know How much to your dear self I owe, --Too young and innocent as yet To guess in what consists the debt.
Therefore to you henceforth belong These Southern asphodels of song, Less MY creations than your own, What praise they win are yours alone.
For here no fancy finds a place But is an affluence of your grace; --
