Come near me with thy lips, and, breathe o'er mine Their breath, for I consume with love's desire,-- Thine ivory arms about me clasp and twine, And beam upon mine eye thine eye's soft fire; Clasp me yet closer, till my heart feels thine Thrill, as the chords of Memnon's mystic lyre Thrilled at the sun's uprising! thou who art The lone, the worshipped idol of my heart!
There! balmier than the south wind, when it brings The scent of aromatic shrub and tree, And tropic flower on ifs glowing wings, Thine odorous breath is wafted over me; How to thy dewy lips mine own lip clings, And my whole being is absorbed in thee; And in my breast thine eyes have lit a fire That never, never, never shall expire!
Eternal--is it not eternal--this Our passionate love? what pow'r shall part us twain? Not even Death! Life could bestow no bliss Like death with thee, and I would rend its chain If thou shouldst perish, for my heaven is To gaze upon thee! I could bear all pain Unsighing, so not parted from thy side, My beautiful! my spirit's chosen bride!
They try to woo me from thy fond embrace, To lure me from the light of those dear eyes; They tell me that in fortune's arduous chase, I have such fleetness as would win the prize;-- But all the pomps of circumstance and place, A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies! Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee.
To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day, To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge, From every ill that lurks along the way! To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge With the bright flowrs that never can decay,-- This were a lot too glorious, too divine, And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine.
Now listen, love,--this plan shall rule my life And thine:--In some remote and sunny dell, Far from the crowded city's silly strife, Myhands shall rear the home where we will dwell; Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife, And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell; And my sole wished for recompense shall be My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee.
Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine,To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine; To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine, And bow us, in his worship, every hour; Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own.
Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,-- Come from the world,--the crowd is not for thee; Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;-- Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem That such as they are, thou couldst ever be! Come, for my soul adores thee with a love As burning as the seraphs feel above.
These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed at Buena Vista.
Warrior of the youthful brow, Eager heart and eagle eye! Pants thy soul for battle now? Burns thy glance with victory? Dost thou dream of conflicts done, Perils past and trophies won? And a nation's grateful praise Given to thine after days?
Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold As the clay upon it prest; And in many a slimy fold, Winds the grave-worm round thy breast. Thou wilt join the fight no more,-- Glory's dream with thee is o'er,-- And alike are now to thee Greatness and obscurity.
But an ever sunny sky, O'er thy place of rest is bending; And above thy grave, and nigh, Flowers ever bright are blending. O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, Balmily the south wind blows,-- With the green turf on thy breast, Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!
When the alarum first was sounded, Marshalling in arms the brave, Forth thy fearless spirit bounded, To obtain thee--what? A grave! Fame had whispered in thine ear, Words the high-souled love to hear,-- But the ruthless hand of death From thee snatched the hero's wreath.
Often will the grief-shade start O'er thy sister's mood of joy, Vainly will thy mother's heart Yearn to greet her absent boy; Never sister's lip shall press On thine own its fond caress,-- Never more a mother's eye Flash in pride when thou art by!
Where the orange, bending lowly With its golden fruit, is swaying; And the Indian maiden, slowly By her native stream is straying; O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, Balmily the South wind blows,-- With the green turf on thy breast, Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!
