“O, woman! thou art gall and wine— Deceit’s worst name, to me, is thine! I thought her will succumbed to mine, So cheerful, happy, she had seemed. I felt within a conscious pride In power to hold, subdue and guide— That she was conquered, fondly dreamed.” “Along the wood she walked with me, Among the wild flowers, gay and free, (I guarded her with watchful eye,) With eager hand she plucked and smiled As guileless as a happy child— No love-lorn look—no sob or sigh.” “Aye, woman’s ways and woman’s wiles Are knitted in with looks and smiles By which man’s wisdom oft is foiled. She’ll seem so gently yielding _will_ While scheming for her own way, still— With sweet deceits will blind us, till Our dearest hopes have been despoiled.” “But, ’tis senseless nursing helpless wrath,— Shall I strew thorns along her path Whose only dower’s a father’s curse?— Drive them out with want to roam? I think I’ll take the couple home— In truth, her parents did much worse.” * * * * * Calypso, still with winning grace, Adorns the ferny, sedgey place By purling brook or shaded dell, And only Cupid knows its art Of hiding in its fragrant heart The secret, sweet, that Love would tell. What Is Love? Not the fierce-destroying power Of the hot sirocco’s breath, Withering every tender flower, Strewing all its path with death Or helpless, silent sorrow. ’Tis a strength that holds each feeling But a slave to do its will— Every wish, abjectly kneeling, Waits its mandate to fulfill Or creeps, by stealth, in shadow. ’Tis Life’s sacred, golden chalice, From as rich a vintage filled For the cottage, as the palace— Sweetest draughts have been distilled With want upon the lever. ’Tis a tender, true devotion, Never soiled by thoughts of pelf, But with gladsome, sweet emotion To its altar bringing _self_, A sacrificial offering.— Joy’s bell whose silver ringing Down the ages has been borne Ever since in Eden, singing, Wedded love hailed rosy morn— Still the tones fall sweet as ever. ’Tis the Horeb of the spirit, Where no coarse-shod thought may tread, The part divine, which souls inherit From love’s holy Fountain-Head, Influent with our being. Sleighing. Hear the bells, distant bells! How the merry music swells, As the steed, with noble speed, Nearer, nearer, nearer comes, Strength doth wing his flying feet; Onward, onward, onward going, With a strong and rythmic beat; Youth, with health and beauty glowing, Blends a rippling, laughter peal With the ringing hoofs of steel— How the mingling music hums!