On the A NNIVERSARY

The three weird sisters, on the dreary strand,
Foresaw this day, twining the fatal thread,
And would have stopt, but, urg'd by Jove's command,
They spun the rest, and weeping firm'd the deed.

O, day accurs'd! that saw, her last adieu,
To maiden honour, innocence, and same;
Nor night's black mantle round thy visage drew,
Nor sent one cloud to cover S YLVIA' n shame.

On thee no morn shall rouse the grateful song,
No gladding sun-beam wake the flow'ry dye;

Why doth the Lord depart so far,
And why conceal his face,
When great calamities appear,
And times of deep distress?

Lord, shall the wicked still deride,
Thy justice and thy laws?
Shall they advance their heads in pride,
And slight our righteous cause?

Arise, O God! lift up thine hand,
Attend our humble cry;
No enemy shall dare to stand,
When God, our help, is nigh.

Thou wilt prepare our hearts to pray,
And cause thine ear to hear;
Accept the vows thy children pay,
And free thy saints from fear.

To Alexis.

When rose-lip'd health reveals her vivid bloom,
And youth and genius all their charms impart;
Why wears the face the discontented gloom?
Why, sadly sighing, heaves the pensive heart?

Can weeping Melancholy's frantic train,
The brow deep-sadden'd, and the tear-swoln eye,
Invade the vernal hour with plaint profane,
And pleasure, peace, and industry supply?

Through years on years a man dreamed dreams on dreams
Of love. — The flowers of every spring were fair,
And love-thoughts glistened through the summer air
And mingled with the lilies on the streams
And wove gold circlets from the starry beams: —
Slow step by step Love's marble palace-stair
The man climbed, and it rang with laughter rare,
And sweet eyes met his own with answering gleams.

At last he reached the central palace-room,
And lo! a woman's form he there descried.
She rose to meet him. In that fragrant gloom,

I woke, having dreamed that I was left alone,
And timidly outstretched a searching hand
And searching eyes, — but felt that I was fanned
By the breath of morning, and a silver tone
Came sweet to reassure me. — Ah! mine own,
What a reaction had God's genius planned!
What an uplifting from the murky land
Into green meadows softly overblown!

And then I knew the difference was this, —
Just this swift difference and nothing more, —
Between hell's horror and the silver shore
Of heaven; even that between the bliss

Judge me, O God! and plead my cause,
Against a sinful race;
From vile oppression and deceit,
Secure me by thy grace.

On thee my steadfast hope depends,
And am I left to mourn?
To sink in sorrow — and in vain,
Implore thy kind return?

Oh! send thy light to guide my feet,
And bid thy truth appear;
Conduct me to thy holy hill,
To taste thy mercies there.

Then to thine altar, O my God!
My joyful feet shall rise;
And my triumphant song shall praise
The God who rules the skies.

I.

This is my vengeance—not to take away
 My love, to leave it with you to the end:
  To speak to you, when flowers are fair;
  When starlight glistens, to be there;
 From the blue spotless summer skies to bend.
I may not speak in weak words? I can pray.

Pray that the higher self I would have died
 To reach, and at its highest point to keep,
  May ever, guided by God's hand,
  Develope, blossom, grow, expand:
 Pray that the fruits my hand may never reap
May fill God's fostering heart with joy and pride.

( " Ma Regina, cette noble figure. " )

Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mind,
My poor lost little one, my latest born.
He was a gift from God — a sign of pardon —
That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year!
I to his little cradle went, and went,
And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it.
For when one's very old, one is a child!
Then took it up and placed it on my knees,
And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair —
Thou wert not born then — and he would stammer
Those pretty little sounds that make one smile!

Hear me, O God! nor hide thy face,
But answer, lest I die;
Hast thou not built a throne of grace,
To hear when sinners cry?

My days are wasted like the smoke,
Dissolving in the air;
My strength is dried, my heart is broke,
And sinking in despair.

My spirits flag, like with'ring grass,
Burnt with excessive heat;
In secret groans my minutes pass,
And I forget to eat.

As on some lonely building's top,
The sparrow tells her moan;
Far from the tents of joy and hope,
I sit and grieve alone.

Night, raven-wing'd, usurps her peaceful reigs
Sleep's lenient balsam stills the voice of woe;
A keener breeze breathes o'er the lowly plain,
And pebbly rills in deeper murmurs flow.

The paly moon thro' yonder dreary grove,
The screech-owl's haunt, emits a feeble ray;
The plumy warblers quit the song of love,
And dangle, slumb'ring, on the dewy spray.

The mastiff, conscious of the lover's tread,
With wakeful yell the list'ning maid alarms,
Who, loosely rob'd, sorsakes the downy bed,
And springs reserveless to his longing arms.