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C GATES KINNEY.
[1850–60.
The wild bee gads hunting for honey,
With wings wove of whispers of love.
With wings wove of whispers of love.
Here the ripples make music more mellow,
More sweet than the stops of a flute;
Here the dark sky of leaves is starred yellow
With thick constellations of fruit.
More sweet than the stops of a flute;
Here the dark sky of leaves is starred yellow
With thick constellations of fruit.
This valley so pleasantly lonely,
Where through doth the waterbrook run,
Holds one little cottage, one only,
And one little maid, only one.
Where through doth the waterbrook run,
Holds one little cottage, one only,
And one little maid, only one.
Her blue eyes are clear pools of passion.
Her lips have the tremor of leaves,
And the speech that her lovely thoughts fashion,
Is sweeter than poetry weaves.
Her lips have the tremor of leaves,
And the speech that her lovely thoughts fashion,
Is sweeter than poetry weaves.
Flirtation, gross, flippant, and cruel,
Ne'er handled the hues on the wings
Of her love ; in her heart is a jewel
No cunning of flattery strings.
Ne'er handled the hues on the wings
Of her love ; in her heart is a jewel
No cunning of flattery strings.
For dwells all alone here the maiden,
And waits for a true lover's kiss :
Who would sigh for angelical Aiden,
With her in an Eden like this?
And waits for a true lover's kiss :
Who would sigh for angelical Aiden,
With her in an Eden like this?
'Tis the Eden of Wishes, unreal,
This valley by sea bordered blue,
And the maiden is all an ideal—
I was but romancing to you.
This valley by sea bordered blue,
And the maiden is all an ideal—
I was but romancing to you.
EMMA STUART.
Oh! the voices of the crickets,
Chirping sad along the lea,
Are the very tears of music
Unto melancholy me;
And the katydid's responses
Up among the locust leaves,
Make my spirit very lonesome
On these pensive autumn eves.
Oh! the voices of the crickets,
Chirping sad along the lea,
Are the very tears of music
Unto melancholy me;
And the katydid's responses
Up among the locust leaves,
Make my spirit very lonesome
On these pensive autumn eves.
For they mind me, Emma Stuart,
Of the by-gone, blessed times,
When our heart-beats paired together
Like sweet syllables in rhymes;
Ere the faith of love was broken,
And our locked hands fell apart,
And the vanity of promise
Left a void in either heart.
Of the by-gone, blessed times,
When our heart-beats paired together
Like sweet syllables in rhymes;
Ere the faith of love was broken,
And our locked hands fell apart,
And the vanity of promise
Left a void in either heart.
Art thou happy, Emma Stuart?
I again may happy be
Nevermore: the autumn insects,
In the grass, and on the tree,
Crying as for very sorrow
At the coming of the frost,
Are to me love's fallen angels.
Wailing for their heaven lost.
I again may happy be
Nevermore: the autumn insects,
In the grass, and on the tree,
Crying as for very sorrow
At the coming of the frost,
Are to me love's fallen angels.
Wailing for their heaven lost.
Often, often, Emma Stuart,
On such solemn nights as this,
Have we sat and mused together
Of the perfectness of bliss—
Of the hope that lit the darkness
Of the future with its ray,
Which was like a star in heaven,
Beautiful, but far away!
On such solemn nights as this,
Have we sat and mused together
Of the perfectness of bliss—
Of the hope that lit the darkness
Of the future with its ray,
Which was like a star in heaven,
Beautiful, but far away!
By the gateway, where the locust
Of the moonlight made eclipse,
And the river ripple sounded
Like the murmur of sweet lips,
There a little maiden waited.
Telling all the moments o'er—
Emma Stuart! Emma Stuart
Waits the maiden there no more?
Of the moonlight made eclipse,
And the river ripple sounded
Like the murmur of sweet lips,
There a little maiden waited.
Telling all the moments o'er—
Emma Stuart! Emma Stuart
Waits the maiden there no more?
No! ah no! Along the pathway
Grows the high, untrampled grass,
Where the cricket stops to listen,
For thy wonted feet to pass;
But thy footsteps, Emma Stuart,
Press no more the doorway stone.
Trip no more along the pathway —
And the cricket sings alone.
Grows the high, untrampled grass,
Where the cricket stops to listen,
For thy wonted feet to pass;
But thy footsteps, Emma Stuart,
Press no more the doorway stone.
Trip no more along the pathway —
And the cricket sings alone.
It is very mournful musing,
On such solemn nights as this.
On such solemn nights as this.
