In the deep passion of his heart's sole love,
She was a mate for angels. Then they gaz'd
Upon her tearless cheek, and murmuring said
"How strange that he should be so slightly mourn'd!"
—Oh woman, oft misconstrued! the pure pearls
Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well,
For the unpausing and impatient hand
To win them forth. In that meek maiden's breast
Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down,
While the blanch'd lip breath'd out no boisterous plaint
Of common grief.
Even on to life's decline,
Amid the giddy round of prosperous years,
The birth of new affections, and the joys
That cluster round earth's favorites, there walk'd
Still at her side, the image of her Sire,
As in that hour when his cold, glazing eye
Met hers, and knew her not.—When her full cup
Perchance had foam'd with pride, that icy glance
Checking its effervescence, taught her soul
The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd bliss.
THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING.
Break from your chains, ye lingering streams,
Rise, blossoms from your wintry dreams,
Drear fields, your robes of verdure take,
Birds, from your trance of silence wake,
Glad trees resume your leafy crown,
Shrubs, o'er the mirror-brooks bend down,
