Ballads of Beauty

Somebody

Somebody's courting somebody,Somewhere or other to-night;Somebody's whispering to somebody,Somebody's listening to somebody,Under this clear moonlight.Near the bright river's flow,Running so still and slow,Talking so soft and low,She sits with somebody.Pacing the ocean's shore,Edged by the foaming roar,Words never used beforeSound sweet to somebody.Under the maple-tree,Deep though the shadow be,Plain enough they can see,Bright eyes has somebody.No one sits up to wait,Though she is out so late,All know she's at the gate,Talking with somebody.Tiptoe to parlor door,Two shadows on the floor,Moonlight, reveal no more,Susy and somebody.Two, sitting side by side,Float with the ebbing tide, —"Thus, dearest, may we glideThrough life," says somebody.Somewhere, somebodyMakes love to somebody,To-night.

A True Woman

She was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleamed upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.I saw her upon nearer view,A spirit, yet a woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller betwixt life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect woman, nobly planned,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel light.

Flowers, and Flowers

Beautiful flowers,In feathery bowers,Filling the air with a silent perfume;Sweet garden of roses,Your beauty disclosesA charm to subdue the soul's sadness and gloom.From rich parterre,Or where city air,Though dank and noisome, hath left you living,Ye come togetherIn the summer weather,To praise His name who is ever giving.Oh, the joy and graceThat enrich the placeWhere your manifold tints and odors are spread!Bewitching and rare,Ye make the land fairAs the Garden of Eden long mourned as dead.Beautiful girls!England's fair pearls,Whose hands are lilies, whose cheeks are roses,These upturned facesOf flower-gracesAre uttering sounds as their life disposes.They lead you throughYon sunny blue,A link 'twixt earth and the angel-powers,And seem to say,Singing day by day,"God make you blossom and bloom like the flowers."

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeets in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellowed to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face, —Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent —A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent.

My Sunshine

Like a cluster of sunbeams her hair is,As blue as the sky-tints her eye,And I think of the Queen of the FairiesWhenever she passes me by;And if we had faysFlitting round nowadays,I should fear she might fly far awaySome day.Sometimes I am puzzled with wonder,To know why the wings were left out;But I'm pleased that they made such a blunder,When the little one first came about;For if she had wings,And soft feathers and things,I should know she would fly far awaySome day.I suspect, after all, she's but human;Yet an angel I couldn't love more.She's a sunshiny, sweet little woman,And her heart is a wide-open door.Oh, may never a sin,Through that door enter in!For I know she will fly far awaySome day.

A Sleeping Beauty

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile!Though shut so close thy laughing eyes,Thy rosy lips still wear a smile,And move and breathe delicious sighs.Ah! now soft blushes tinge her cheeksAnd mantle o'er her neck of snow;Ah! now she murmurs, now she speaks,What most I wish, and fear to know.She starts, she trembles, and she weeps,Her fair hands folded on her breast;And now, how like a saint she sleeps,A seraph in the realms of rest!Sleep on secure! Above control,Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee;And may the secret of thy soulRemain within its sanctuary!

The Lady's Yes

"Yes!" I answered you last night;"No!" this morning, sir, I say.Colors seen by candle-lightWill not look the same by day.When the tabors played their best,Lamps above and laughs below,Love me sounded like a jest,Fit for yes or fit for no.Call me false or call me free, —Vow, whatever light may shine,No man on thy face shall seeAny grief for change on mine.Yet the sin is on us both:Time to dance is not to woo;Wooer light makes fickle troth;Scorn of me recoils on you.Learn to win a lady's faithNobly, as the thing is high;Bravely, as for life and death, —With a loyal gravity.Lead her from the festive boards,Point her to the starry skies,Guard her by your faithful words,Pure from courtship's flatteries.By your truth she shall be true,Ever true, as wives of yore;And her Yes, once said to you,Shall be Yes forevermore.

A Health

I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone, —A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon;To whom the better elementsAnd kindly stars have givenA form so fair, that, like the air,'Tis less of earth than heaven.Her every tone is music's own,Like those of morning birds,And something more than melodyDwells ever in her words;The coinage of her heart are they,And from her lips each flowsAs one may see the burdened beeForth issue from the rose.Affections are as thoughts to her,The measures of her hours;Her feelings have the fragrancy,The freshness of young flowers;And lovely passions, changing oft,So fill her, she appearsThe image of themselves by turns, —The idol of past years!Of her bright face one glance will traceA picture on the brain,And of her voice in echoing heartsA sound must long remain;But memory, such as mine of her,So very much endears,When death is nigh, my latest sighWill not be life's, but hers.I fill this cup to one made upOf loveliness alone, —A woman, of her gentle sexThe seeming paragon:Her health! and would on earth there stoodSome more of such a frame,That life might be all poetry,And weariness a name.

Winifred's Hair

Winifred, waking in the morning,Locks dishevelled, sighed, "Alas!Broken is the Venice-bodkinThat you gave me – 'twas of glass.All my auburn hair, henceforward,Shall be given to the wind."Ere the evening came, another'sNet of pearl her hair confined.Frail as the Venetian baubleI had thrust in Winifred's hair;Lo! the net now snapped asunder,Other hands had fastened there.Ere the moon's wide-blossomed petalsOn the breast of night had died,Net and bodkin both deserted,Winifred's glittering hair flowed wide!Silver comb and silken filletNext in turn the wild hair bound,Till at length the crown of wifehoodClasped its bands that hair around, —Golden crown of Love! displacingGirlhood's vain adornments there.Winifred never more shall alter,Now, the fashion of her hair.

In the Organ Loft

The dead in their ancient graves are still;There they've slept for many a year;The last faint sunbeams glance o'er the hill,Gilding the dry grass, tall and sere,And the foam of the babbling rill.Into the church the ruddy light falls,Through rich stained windows, narrow and high;Pictures it paints on the old gray walls,Scenes from the days that have long gone by, —And hark! 'tis my Rosalie calls!She calls my name, – I have heard it oftJust at the golden sun's decline;I answer the call, so sweet and soft;And, turning, see where her bright eyes shine,High up in the organ loft.I pass the winding and narrow stair;The gallery door stands open wide;I know no shadow of pain or care,While darling Rosalie stands by my side,In the sunset light so fair.What grand old hymns and chants we sang,Grand old chants that I loved so well!And the organ's tones, – how they pealed and rang,Piercing the heart, no tongue can tellWith what a delicious pang!Oh, those hours! what holy lightHovers around when their memories rise!Music, love, and the sunset bright,Tenderest glances from Rosalie's eyes,And a long, sweet kiss, for good-night!

A Garden in her Face

There is a garden in her face,Where roses and white lilies grow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;There cherries grow that none may buy,Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.Those cherries fairly do incloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which, when her lively laughter shows,They look like rose-buds filled with snow;Yet these no peer nor prince may buy,Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.Her eyes like angels' watch there still,Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threatening with piercing frowns to killAll that approach with eye or hand,Those sacred cherries to come nigh,Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

When Stars are in the Quiet Skies

When stars are in the quiet skies,Then most I pine for thee.Bend on me then thy tender eyes,As stars look on the sea!For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,Are stillest when they shine;Mine earthly love lies hushed in lightBeneath the heaven of thine.There is an hour when angels keepFamiliar watch o'er men,When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep, —Sweet spirit, meet me then!There is an hour when holy dreamsThrough slumber fairest glide;And in that mystic hour, it seemsThou shouldst be by my side.My thoughts of thee too sacred areFor daylight's common beam:I can but know thee as my star,My angel, and my dream!When stars are in the quiet skies,Then most I pine for thee.Bend on me then thy tender eyes,As stars look on the sea!

The Time I've Lost in Wooing

The time I've lost in wooingIn watching and pursuingThe light that liesIn Woman's eyes,Has been my heart's undoing.Though Wisdom oft has sought me,I scorned the lore she brought me;My only booksWere Woman's looks,And folly's all they taught me.Her smiles when Beauty granted,I hung with gaze enchanted,Like him, the sprite,Whom maids by nightOft meet in glen that's haunted.Like him, too, Beauty won meBut while her eyes were on me;If once their rayWas turned away,Oh, winds could not outrun me!And are those follies going?And is my proud heart growingToo cold or wiseFor brilliant eyesAgain to set it glowing?No, – vain, alas! th' endeavorFrom bonds so sweet to sever;Poor Wisdom's chanceAgainst a glanceIs now as weak as ever.

Not a Match

Kitty, sweet and seventeen,Pulls my hair and calls me "Harry";Hints that I am young and green,Wonders if I wish to marry.Only tell me what replyIs the best reply for Kitty?She's but seventeen, and I—I am forty, – more's the pity!Twice at least my Kitty's age(Just a trifle over, maybe),I am sober, I am sage,Kitty nothing but a baby.She is merriment and mirth,I am wise and gravely witty;She's the dearest thing on earth,I am forty, – more 's the pity!She adores my pretty rhymes,Calls me "poet" when I write them;And she listens oftentimesHalf an hour when I recite them.Let me scribble by the pageSonnet, ode, or lover's ditty;Seventeen is Kitty's age,I am forty, – more's the pity!

O saw ye the Lass?

O saw ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een?Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen;Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween,She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green.The home of my love is below in the valley,Where wild-flowers welcome the wandering bee;But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seenIs the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een.When night overshadows her cot in the glen,She'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again;And when the moon shines on the valley so green,I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een.As the dove that has wandered away from his nestReturns to the mate his fond heart loves the best,I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene,To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een.