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By thy dark locks, that loosely flow,
In glossy curls, luxuriantly ;
Which 'neath the veil swells half-conceal'd
A heaven of beauty is reveald ;
By these, and by my blade, I swear,
That little blue-vein'd foot of thine
The silken tents of Irad shine.
But thou thy Kosru's bride shalt be,
And seek, with him, rich Cashmir's vale;
As the young fawn, o'er hill and dale.
There, like the notes of Eden's bowers,*
Thy strains shall listless time beguile;
In the clear sunshine of thy smile.
OLIVER C. WYMAN,
OF Boston. His poetry has been written for the newspapers and periodicals of this city.
Thou of the pale and lofty brow,
The intellectual eye,
Even to destiny
* Mahomet in speaking of the sweetness of the Persian dialect used in bis day, said that it would be the language of Paradise.
Say, to what deep and dread design,
Does thy great heart incline?
With beings of another sphere
Thy mystic converse seems; Like that of some prophetic seer, Who hid in caverns dark and drear,
Revolves foreboding dreams ; Yet thy fix'd eye's undying flame
Betokens nought of shame.
Say, dost thou commune with the stars,
And pierce the world beyond ! Seest warriors in their flaming cars, In other spheres, wage quenchless wars,
While Love and Hope despond? No! pure
the pageantry must be Thine eye lights gloriously.
Say, dost thou see a blushing cheek
Through flowing, gleamy hair?
For the fair creature there?
And now gush forth thy tears.
Speak, I conjure thee by the names
Of mother and of sire;
The keen heart of desire;
I'll listen and admire.
“ Youth! in yon sparkling firmament
I see a promised heaven.
To earth, with earth is riven-
A joy that cannot die.”
TO THE CLOUDS.
YE, whose dark foldings are the throne
Hail! Hail ! I greet ye with a smile;
The deep and muttering thunder breathes-
The awful lightning, flashing, wreathes
Doth not the bright and scented flower
Memorials of His power, who sees
THERE was a sound of music sweet as gentle notes that swell At midnight from the moonlit caves of yonder leafy dell; Where, at the dewfall, spirits cluster round the sleeping flow
ers, To sing their plaintive melodies, and wreath their wild-rose
bowers. There were gallant forms and beauteous ones around the al
tar press’d, And dazzlingly the torches flash'd on plume and burnish'd
crest; 'T was a scene whereon a painter's eye or poet's lip might
dwell, When the young De Courcy wedded with the peerless Ga
He was a Knight a maid might love in days of wild romance,
one, Where eyes are as its sparkling stars, and hearts are like its
sun; And still the wandering troubadour full many a tale can tell Of her the ever brightest gem—the peerless Gabrielle.
Upon the altar-stone, there knelt the maiden young and fair,
And never yet has man been bound within more potent spell,
rang, The fearful burst of musquetry, and meeting sabres clang; In pour’d the savage mountain-clan like some enfranchised
flood, And fierce the struggle 'twixt the brave and that stern band
of blood; For gallantly the warriors fought, and valiantly they fell Around the altar-stone where lay the dying Gabrielle. A shot had pierced the gentle heart of that fair virgin-bride, She perish'd in her loveliness, in her young beauty's pride; But where is he whose arm should guard, whose battle-blade
defend, The foremost in the raging fight, most eager to contend; Could he forsake that sweetest rose, amid
the deadly strife, To purchase after hours of shame, to bear a hated life ?Whose hand is clasp'd with that of one in life beloved so wellDe Courcy died a hero's death beside his Gabrielle.
SONG OF THE BEE.
Away, away, to the anxious flower
That droops and pines for its truant bee; With beauty renew'd like the morning hour,
'T will wait for my coming with anxious glee. Ah little, but little, the rose-spirit dreams
Of the last dear place of her wanderer's restLike the evening dew, in the mountain streams,
She would waste should I tell of the tulip's breast.
Must be mine from the freshest and sweetest rose ;
over him close. Hid from the beam of his rival-Sun,
Couch'd in the bosom of beauty's flower, He rests, till its choicest treasures are won,
From the scorching ray or the drenching shower.