Poems [38]
can it mean?
Whene'er my name he utters, A blush upon my cheek is seen!-- His voice my bosom flutters!-- What can it mean--what can it mean?
If he but mentions Cupid, Or, smiling, calls me "fairy queen," I sigh, and looks so stupid!-- What can it mean--what can it mean?
Oh, mercy! what can ail me? I'm growing wan and very lean; My spirits often fail me! What can it mean--what can it mean?
I'm not in love!--No!--Smother Such a thought at seventeen! I'll go and ask my mother-- "What can it mean--what can it mean?"
Where Hudson's Wave.
Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands Winds through the hills afar, Old Cronest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star! And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth, My fair and gentle Ida dwells, A nymph of mountain-birth.
The snow-flake that the cliff receives, The diamonds of the showers, Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves, The sisterhood of flowers, Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, Her purity define; Yet Ida's dearer far than these To this fond breast of mine.
My heart is on the hills. The shades Of night are on my brow; Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades, My soul is with you now! I bless the star-crowned highlands where My Ida's footsteps roam: O for a falcon's wing to bear Me onward to my home!
Au Revoir.
Love left one day his leafy bower, And roamed in sportive vein, Where Vanity had built a tower, For Fashion's sparkling train. The mistress to see he requested, Of one who attended the door: "Not home," said the page, who suggested That he'd leave his card.--"Au Revoir."
Love next came to a lowly bower: A maid who knew no guile, Unlike the lady of the tower, Received him with a smile. Since then the cot beams with his brightness Though often at Vanity's door Love calls, merely out of politeness, And just leaves his card.--"Au Revoir."
To My Absent Daughter.
Georgie, come home!--Life's tendrils cling about thee, Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led. We miss thee, love!--Home is not home without thee-- The light and glory of the house have fled: The autumn shiver of the linden-tree Is like the pang that thrills my frame for thee!
Georgie, come home!--To parents, brother, sister Thy place is vacant in this lonely hall, Where shines the river through the "Jeannie Vista," While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall: Our spirits falter at the close of day, And weary night moves tardily away.
Georgie, come home!--The winds and waves are singing The mournful music of their parting song, To soul and sense the sad forboding bringing, Some ill detains thee in the town so long: Oh, that the morn may dissipate the fear, And bring good tidings of my daughter dear!
Georgie, come home!--The forest leaves are falling, And dreary visions in thy absence come; The fountain on the hill in vain is calling Thee, my beloved one, to thy woodland home. And I imagine every passing breeze Whispers thy name among the moaning trees!
Georgie, come home!--Thy gentle look can banish The gathering gloom round this once cheerful hearth; In thy sweet presence all our care will vanish, And sorrow soften into mellow mirth. Return, my darling, never more to roam: Heart of the Highlands!--Georgie, dear, come home!
Song of the Sewing-Machine
I'm the Iron Needle-Woman! Wrought of sterner stuff than clay; And, unlike the drudges human, Never weary night or day; Never shedding tears of sorrow, Never mourning friends untrue, Never caring for the morrow, Never begging work to do.
Poverty brings no disaster! Merrily I glide along, For no thankless, sordid master, Ever seeks to do me wrong: No extortioners oppress me, No insulting words I dread-- I've no children to distress me With unceasing cries for bread.
I'm of hardy form and feature, For endurance framed aright; I'm not pale misfortune's creature, Doomed life's battle here to fight: Mine's a song of cheerful measure, And
Whene'er my name he utters, A blush upon my cheek is seen!-- His voice my bosom flutters!-- What can it mean--what can it mean?
If he but mentions Cupid, Or, smiling, calls me "fairy queen," I sigh, and looks so stupid!-- What can it mean--what can it mean?
Oh, mercy! what can ail me? I'm growing wan and very lean; My spirits often fail me! What can it mean--what can it mean?
I'm not in love!--No!--Smother Such a thought at seventeen! I'll go and ask my mother-- "What can it mean--what can it mean?"
Where Hudson's Wave.
Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands Winds through the hills afar, Old Cronest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star! And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth, My fair and gentle Ida dwells, A nymph of mountain-birth.
The snow-flake that the cliff receives, The diamonds of the showers, Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves, The sisterhood of flowers, Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, Her purity define; Yet Ida's dearer far than these To this fond breast of mine.
My heart is on the hills. The shades Of night are on my brow; Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades, My soul is with you now! I bless the star-crowned highlands where My Ida's footsteps roam: O for a falcon's wing to bear Me onward to my home!
Au Revoir.
Love left one day his leafy bower, And roamed in sportive vein, Where Vanity had built a tower, For Fashion's sparkling train. The mistress to see he requested, Of one who attended the door: "Not home," said the page, who suggested That he'd leave his card.--"Au Revoir."
Love next came to a lowly bower: A maid who knew no guile, Unlike the lady of the tower, Received him with a smile. Since then the cot beams with his brightness Though often at Vanity's door Love calls, merely out of politeness, And just leaves his card.--"Au Revoir."
To My Absent Daughter.
Georgie, come home!--Life's tendrils cling about thee, Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led. We miss thee, love!--Home is not home without thee-- The light and glory of the house have fled: The autumn shiver of the linden-tree Is like the pang that thrills my frame for thee!
Georgie, come home!--To parents, brother, sister Thy place is vacant in this lonely hall, Where shines the river through the "Jeannie Vista," While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall: Our spirits falter at the close of day, And weary night moves tardily away.
Georgie, come home!--The winds and waves are singing The mournful music of their parting song, To soul and sense the sad forboding bringing, Some ill detains thee in the town so long: Oh, that the morn may dissipate the fear, And bring good tidings of my daughter dear!
Georgie, come home!--The forest leaves are falling, And dreary visions in thy absence come; The fountain on the hill in vain is calling Thee, my beloved one, to thy woodland home. And I imagine every passing breeze Whispers thy name among the moaning trees!
Georgie, come home!--Thy gentle look can banish The gathering gloom round this once cheerful hearth; In thy sweet presence all our care will vanish, And sorrow soften into mellow mirth. Return, my darling, never more to roam: Heart of the Highlands!--Georgie, dear, come home!
Song of the Sewing-Machine
I'm the Iron Needle-Woman! Wrought of sterner stuff than clay; And, unlike the drudges human, Never weary night or day; Never shedding tears of sorrow, Never mourning friends untrue, Never caring for the morrow, Never begging work to do.
Poverty brings no disaster! Merrily I glide along, For no thankless, sordid master, Ever seeks to do me wrong: No extortioners oppress me, No insulting words I dread-- I've no children to distress me With unceasing cries for bread.
I'm of hardy form and feature, For endurance framed aright; I'm not pale misfortune's creature, Doomed life's battle here to fight: Mine's a song of cheerful measure, And