THY memory, as a spell
Of love, comes o'er my mind-
As dew upon the purple bell-
As perfume on the wind;-
As music on the sea-
As sunshine on the river;
So hath it always been to me,
So shall it be for ever.
I hear thy voice in dreams
Upon me softly call,
Like echoes of the mountain streams
In sportive waterfall.
I see thy form as when
Thou wert a living thing,
And blossom'd in the
eyes Like any flower of spring.
Thy soul to heaven hath fled,
From earthly thraldom free;
Yet, 't is not as the dead
That thou appear'st to me.
In slumber I behold
Thy form, as when on earth,
Thy locks of waving gold,
Thy sapphire eye of mirth.
I hear, in solitude,
The prattle kind and free,
Thou uttered'st in joyful mood
While seated on my knee.
So strong each vision seems,
My spirit that doth fill,
I think not they are dreams,
But that thou livest still.
FLY to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowing in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs,
As o'er the marble courts of kings.
Then come,-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree;
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,-
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!
So came thy very glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone,
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years!
Then fly with me,-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,-
Fresh as the fountain under-ground,
When first 't is by the lapwing found.
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place;-
Then, fare thee well,-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine.
THE Snow! the snow!-'t is a pleasant thing
To watch it falling, falling
Down upon earth with noiseless wing
As at some spirit's calling;
Each flake is a fairy parachute,
From teeming clouds let down,
And earth is still, and air is mute,
As frost's enchanted zone.
The snow! the snow!-behold the trees
Their fingery boughs stretch out,
The blossoms of the sky to seize,
As they duck and dive about:
The bare hills plead for a covering,
And, ere the gray twilight,
Around their shoulders broad shall cling
An arctic cloak of white.
The snow! the snow!-alas! to me
It speaks of far-off days,
When a boyish skater, mingling free
Amid the merry maze:
Methinks I see the broad ice still;
And my nerves all jangling feel,
Blending with tones of voices shrill
The ring of the slider's heel.
The snow! the snow!-soon dusky night
Drew his murky curtains round
Low earth, while a star of lustre bright
Peep'd from the blue profound.
Yet what cared we for dark'ning lea,
Or warning bell remote?
With shout and cry we scudded by,
And found the bliss we sought.
The snow! the snow!-'twas ours to wage,
How oft, a mimic war,
Each white ball tossing in wild rage,
That left a gorgeous scar:
While doublets dark were powder'd o'er,
Till darkness none could find,
And valorous chiefs had wounds before,
And caitiff chiefs behind.
The snow! the snow!-I see him yet,
That piled-up giant grim,
To startle horse and traveller set,
With Titan girth of limb.
We hoped, oh, ice-ribb'd Winter bright!
Thy sceptre could have screen'd him;
But traitor Thaw stole forth by night,
And cruelly guillotined him!
The snow! the snow!-Lo! Eve reveals
Her starr'd map to the moon,
And o'er hush'd earth a radiance steals
More bland than that of noon:
The fur-robed genii of the Pole
Dance o'er our mountains white,
Chain up the billows as they roll,
And pearl the caves with light,
The snow! the snow!-It brings to mind
A thousand happy things,
And but one sad one-'tis to find
Too sure that Time hath wings!
Oh! ever sweet is sight or sound
That tells of long ago;
And I gaze around, with thoughts profound,
Upon the falling snow.
THE WINTER EVENING.
HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright ;-
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back:
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings; his one concern,
Is to conduct him to the destined inn;
And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful, messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks;
Births, deaths, and marriages; epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks,
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill;
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,
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