Sing, little darling, sing,
And may thy song be everlasting!
Not all the learning wits and sages boast
Can equal the sweet burden of thy song; —
Can yield such rest amid life's noisiest strife; —
Such peace to still the spirit's wildest wars; —
Such hope to stem the most tumultuous wave
May threat to overwhelm.
The love of Jesus, —
Sweet, having this thou risest far above
All this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.


Did He who blest
That infant band that crowded round His knee,

The flowers that bloom on the bosom of Earth,
Though sweet in their odour, and rich in their hue,
Are emblems too fleeting of beauty and worth,
For a gift of affection, dear Mary, to you.

For you I have chosen a bouquet of flowers,
That ne'er drank a dew-drop nor glow'd in the sun;
They were form'd as the solace of wearisome hours,
In a Convent's deep shade, by an innocent Nun.

Still in beauty will bloom this fair effort of Art,
When the offspring of Flora are blighted and dead;
As a proof of my love, 'twill be dear to thy heart,

The breeze of evening softly sighs,
To-night, upon the ocean's breast,
And, as the playful billows rise,
Then gently sinks again to rest,
While moonbeams tip each foamy crest.
And all is bright and calm above me,
I'll sing of thee, whom I love best,
And tell thee, Mary, why I love thee.

Thy form is fair, thy mien is light,
Thy cheek wears health and beauty's hue;
Thy teeth are pearls, thine eye is bright,

Birds that like vanishing visions go winging,
White, white in the flame of the sunset's burning,
Fly with the wild spray the billows are flinging,
Blend, blend with the nightfall, and fade, unreturning!

Fire of the heaven, whose splendor all-glowing
Soon, soon shall end, and in darkness must perish;
Sea-bird and flame-wreath and foam lightly blowing; —
Soon, soon tho' we lose you, your beauty we cherish.

Visions may vanish, the sweetest, the dearest;
Hush'd, hush'd be the voice of love's echo replying;

To sweeten a swift minute so
With such rare fragrance of sweet speech,
And make the after hours go
In a blank yearning each on each;
To drain the springs till they be dry,
And then in anguish thirst for drink,
So but to glimpse her robe thirst I,
And my soul hungers and I sink.

There is no word that we have said
Whereby the lips and heart are fire;
No look the linked glances read
That held the springs of deep desire.
And yet the sounds her glad lips gave
Are on my soul vibrating still.
Her eyes that swept me as a wave

O waters fresh and sweet and clear,
Where bathed her lovely frame,
Who seems the only lady unto me;
O gentle branch and dear,
(Sighing I speak thy name,)
Thou column for her shapely thighs, her supple knee;
O grass, O flowers, which she
Swept with her gown that veiled
The angelic breast unseen;
O sacred air serene,
Whence the divine-eyed Love my heart assailed,
By all of ye be heard
This my supreme lament, my dying word.

Oh, if it be my fate
(As Heaven shall so decree)

I.

The long-closed door, oh open it again, send me back once more my fawn that had fled.
On the day of our reunion, thou shalt rest by my side, there wilt thou shed over me the streams of thy delicious perfume.
Oh beautiful bride, what is the form of thy friend, that thou say to me, Release him, send him away?
He is the beautiful-eyed one of ruddy glorious aspect — that is my friend, him do thou detain.

II.

Hail to thee, Son of my friend, the ruddy, the bright-colored one! Hail to thee whose temples are like a pomegranate.

There was a house where an old dame
Lived with a son, his child and wife;
And with a son of fifty years,
An idiot all his life.

When others wept this idiot laughed,
When others laughed he then would weep;
The married pair took oath his eyes
Did never close in sleep.

Death came that way, and which think you
Fell under that old tyrant's spell?
He breathed upon that little child,
Who loved her life so well.

This made the idiot chuckle hard:
The old dame looked at that child dead

Now I can see what Helen was:
Men cannot see this woman pass
And be not stirred; as Summer's Breeze
Sets leaves in battle on the trees.
A woman moving gracefully,
With golden hair enough for three,
Which, mercifully! is not loose,
But lies in coils to her head close;
With lovely eyes, so dark and blue,
So deep, so warm, they burn me through.
I see men follow her, as though
Their homes were where her steps should go.
She seemed as sent to our cold race
For fear the beauty of her face
Made Paradise in flames like Troy —

With a ring of silver,
And a ring of gold,
And a red, red rose
Which illumines her face,
The sun, like a lover
Who glows and is bold,
Wooes the lovely earth
To his strong embrace.