Nor matron, with her thoughts confined To maxims meant for youth; Nor man mature: too oft his mind Will close to others’ truth. But I would blend the purity Of her whom I adore With manly power for mastery And promise yet in store. So I would take the boy who roams Toward life, half understood, From thresholds of those holy homes That face alone the good;— A boy who has not reach’d the brink Where vice will cross his track, Whose wish that loathes the wish to drink Still keeps the tempter back;— A boy who hardly knows of ill, Or ill can apprehend, With cheeks that blush, with eyes that fill, And faith that fears no end. And oh, I know that those who love The purest part of joy, Would choose with me from all above The heaven that held my boy. THE BELLE. A smile—could it be meant for me?— Yet there she stood before me. But she had charm’d so many eyes And I was neither rich nor wise,— The belle of all the county, she: I seem’d a child, She only smiled Because she knew her mien was mild, While mine confusion bore me. And praise—could it be meant for me?— Ah, how could I suppose it? The rarest minds I knew about Had held her gauge of them in doubt. A prize past all I hoped for, she; But young was I; And this was why She thought my pride to gratify; Yet I could but disclose it. A blush—could it be meant for me?— Yet so she met no other. A face that all with joy would meet, Could it have blush’d my own to greet? A belle whom all had sought for, she; Yet I could see Heave but for me A sigh that strove and would be free. I spoke to free another. She answer’d—All was meant for me Whom rivals off were shoving; And all my love had burst in flame To feel her ardor while it came. “A woman, whosoe’er she be, Is nothing more, O loved of yore, Than just a woman, nothing o’er, And can but love the loving.” THE POET’S REASON. I live to write; and write, good friend. In part, I know, for you; Though, while I do so, in the end Myself it pleases too. “The world,” you think, “may prize my rhymes.” Of old, I hoped it would. But many and many have been the times I only deem’d them good! I “love to write”? You near the truth. I love to talk, as well; And poems breathe a part, forsooth, Of what the soul would tell.— Ay, ay, the soul. For it how meet That those we love should see— Not poems—but the poem sweet That all one’s life would be! AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.