The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon Part 18

The blossoms that we joyous cull By bank or silver stream; The fragrant hawthorn boughs we pull, Most sacred too, we deem: For not amid our tresses we Their op'ning buds will twine, But garlands fair we'll weave with care For Mary's lowly shrine.

And when the twilight shades descend On earth, so hushed and still, And the lone night bird's soft notes blend With breeze from glade and hill, We seek her shrine with loving heart, And, humbly kneeling there, We linger long, loth to depart From that sweet place of prayer!

Oh! who can tell with what gifts rare Our Mother will repay Their love who honor thus with care Her own sweet month of May!

A grace for every flower they've brought Or 'Ave, they have said; And ev'ry pious, holy thought Shall be by her repaid!

NATURE'S MUSIC.

Of many gifts bestowed on earth To cheer a lonely hour, Oh is there one of equal worth With music's magic power?

'Twill charm each angry thought to rest, 'Twill gloomy care dispel, And ever we its power can test,-- All nature breathes its spell.

There's music in the sighing tone Of the soft, southern breeze That whispers thro' the flowers lone, And bends the stately trees, And--in the mighty ocean's chime, The crested breakers roar, The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime, Breaking upon the sh.o.r.e.

There's music in the bulbul's note, Warbling its vesper lay In some fair spot, from man remote, Where wind and flowers play; But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain Of bird, or wave, or grove Is that soother of our hours of pain-- The voice of those we love.

When sorrow weigheth down the heart The night birds sweetest lay-- The harp's most wild and thrilling art-- Care cannot chase away; But let affection's voice be heard, New springs of life 'twill ope,-- One word--one little loving word-- Will bring relief and hope.

MAUDE.

A BALLAD OF THE OLDEN TIME.

Around the castle turrets fiercely moaned the autumn blast, And within the old lords daughter seemed dying, dying fast; While o'er her couch in frenzied grief the stricken father bent, And in deep sobs and stifled moans his anguish wild found vent.

"Oh cheer thee up, my daughter dear, my Maude, he softly said, As tremblingly he strove to raise that young and drooping head; 'I'll deck thee out in jewels rare in robes of silken sheen, Till thou shalt be as rich and gay as any crowned queen."

"Ah, never, never!" sighed the girl, and her pale cheek paler grew, While marble brow and chill white hands were bathed in icy dew; "Look in my face--there thou wilt read such hopes are folly all, No garment shall I wear again, save shroud and funeral pall."

"My Maude thou'rt wilful! Far away in lands beyond the sea Are sunny climes, where winter ne'er doth wither flower or tree; And there thou'lt journey with me, till I see thee smile once more, And thy fair cheek wear the rose's hue as in the days of yore."

"Ah, no roses shall I gather beneath a summer sky, Not for me such dreams, dear father, my end is drawing nigh; One voyage is before me, 'tis no use to grieve or moan, But that dark, fearful journey must I travel all alone."

"My precious child! last of my race! why wilt thou grieve me so?

Why add by such sad words unto thy grey haired father's woe?

Live--live, my pearl! my stricken dove! earth's joys shall all be thine; Whate'er thy wish or will through life, it also shall be mine."

Fast coursed the diamond tear drops down that fair, though faded, cheek, And she whispered, but so softly, one scarce could hear her speak: "Ah! father, half those loving cares when summer bright was here Would have kept thy daughter with thee for many a happy year.

"But, ah! thy heart was marble then, and to thy direst foe, More stern, relentless anger thou couldst not, father, show.

What was my crime? The one I loved, not rich but n.o.bly born, Was loyal, true, on whom no man e'er looked with glance of scorn.

"He wooed me fairly, father dear, but thou did'st often swear Thou'dst rather see me in my grave than bride to Hengist's heir.

Reckless, despairing, he embarked upon the stormy main, To seek an end to grief and care, nor sought he long in vain.

"Calm and untroubled sleeps he now beneath the salt sea brine, And I rejoice to think how soon that sweet sleep shall be mine!"

No answer made the father but a low and grief-struck moan; And silence reigned again throughout that chamber sad and lone.

Sudden the girl starts wildly, with bright and kindling eye, Her cheek a.s.sumes a crimson tint like hue of sunset sky, "Father! that voice, that rapid step, ah, me! they are well-known, Hengist who comes from ocean's deeps to claim me for his own!"

Say, does she rave? No. See yon form, with proud and gallant brow, Bending above her, whisp'ring low, fond word and tender vow: "Maude, my own love! no spectral form, no phantom's at thy side, But thy girlhood's lover, now returned to claim thee as his bride."

The story runs that love and youth o'er death the victory won, And again did Maude, a happy wife, play 'neath the summer sun, While the old lord, grateful to the Power that Hengist's life had spared, Henceforth in all his children's bliss, hopes, sorrows, fully shared.

REJOICINGS AFTER THE BATTLE OF INKERMAN.*

[* Won by the "Allies" during the Crimean war though with great losses in killed and wounded.]

Rejoice! the fearful day is o'er For the victors and the slain; Our cannon proclaim from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, The Allies have won again!

Let our joy bells ring out music clear, The gayest they've ever pealed; Let bonfires flames the dark night cheer, We are masters of the field

But list! dost hear that mournful wail 'Bove the joyous revelry?

Rising from hillside and lowly vale,-- Say, what can its meaning be?

From Erin's sunny emerald sh.o.r.e It trembles upon the gale, And rises with the torrent's roar From the birth place of the Gael.

Fair Albion, too, in every spot Of thy land of promise wide Is heard that dirge for the mournful lot Of thy soldier sons--thy pride.

Them shall no bugle at dawn of day Arouse from their quiet sleep, Them shall no charger with shrill neigh Bear off to the hillside steep.

'Mid the dead and dying stretched unknown On Crimea's blood stained earth, Lie the household G.o.ds of many a home, The lights of many a hearth: While, vainly woman's weeping voice Calls on each well loved one-- The tender wife on her girlhoods choice, The fond mother on her son.

And not only from the peasant's cot Comes that mournful, dirge like cry, 'Tis heard--unto all a common lot-- Where dwell the great and high; And tears fall fast for the last lost child Of many a n.o.ble race, Who has perished in that struggle wild, And left none to fill his place.

Yet if above our laurels bright Falls many a bitter tear, Still, still, may we find a gleam of light, Our stricken hearts to cheer; They have fallen in the country's cause That their youth and manhood nursed, They have fallen true to honor's laws, In a sacred strife and just.

A FEW SHORT YEARS FROM NOW.

Say, art thou angry? words unkind Have fallen upon thine ear, Thy spirit hath been wounded too By mocking jest or sneer, But mind it not--relax at once Thine o'ercast and troubled brow-- What will be taunt or jest to thee In a few short years from now?

Or, perhaps thou mayst be pining Beneath some bitter grief, From whose pangs in vain thou seekest Or respite or relief; Fret not 'neath Heav'n's chastening rod But submissive to it bow; Thy griefs will all be hushed to rest In a few short years from now.

Art toiling for some worldly aim, Or for some golden prize, Devoting to that glitt'ring goal Thy thoughts, thy smiles, thy sighs?

Ah! rest thee from the idle chase, With no bliss can it endow; Of fame or gold, what will be thine In a few short years from now?

It may be pleasure's roseate dreams Possess thy wayward heart, Its gilded gauds for better things Leaving alas! no part; Ah! cast away the gems and flowers That bind thy thoughtless brow, Where will their gleam or brightness be In a few short years from now?