I've hated men--I hate them now-- But, since they are not here, I thirst for the familiar brow-- Thirst for the stealing tear. And I should love to see the one, And feel the other creep, And then again I'd be alone Amid the forest deep. I thought that I should love my hound, And hear my cracking gun Till I forgot the thrilling sound Of voices--one by one. I thought that in the leafy hush Of nature, they would die; But, as the hindered waters rush, Resisted feelings fly I'm weary of my lonely hut And of its blasted tree, The very lake is like my lot, So silent constantly. I've lived amid the forest gloom Until I almost fear-- When will the thrilling voices come My spirit thirsts to hear? ON THE DEATH OF MISS FANNY V. APTHORP. 'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. Her presence, like the shadow of a wing That is just given to the upward sky, Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice, And for her step we listen, and the eye Looks for her wonted coming with a strange, Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel That she will no more come--that from her cheek The delicate flush has faded, and the light Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip, That was so exquisitely pure, the dew Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov'd, Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd The world with such a winning loveliness, And on its bright, brief journey, gather'd up Such treasures of affection? She was lov'd Only as idols are. She was the pride Of her familiar sphere--the daily joy Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, And, in the light and music of her way, Have a companion's portion. Who could feel, While looking upon beauty such as hers, That it would ever perish! It is like The melting of a star into the sky While you are gazing on it, or a dream In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken. A PORTRAIT. She was not very beautiful, if it be beauty's test To match a classic model when perfectly at rest; And she did not look bewitchingly, if witchery it be, To have a forehead and a lip transparent as the sea. The fashion of her gracefulness was not a follow'd rule, And her effervescent sprightliness was never learnt at school; And her words were all peculiar, like the fairy's who 'spoke pearls;' And her tone was ever sweetest midst the cadences of girls. Said I she was not beautiful? Her eyes upon your sight Broke with the lambent purity of planetary light, And an intellectual beauty, like a light within a vase, Touched every line with glory of her animated face.