So doff th' imposture of those heavy brows; They do not serve to hide thy instincts base-- And if thou must be sometimes munching MOUSE, Munch it, O Owl! with less profound a face. Love's Logic And if I ask thee for a kiss, I ask no more than this sweet breeze, With far less title to the bliss, Steals every minute at his ease. And yet how placid is thy brow! It seems to woo the bold caress, While now he takes his kiss, and now All sorts of freedoms with thy dress. Or if I dare thy hand to touch, Hath nothing pressed its palm before? A flower, I'm sure, hath done as much, And ah! some senseless diamond more. It strikes me, love, the very rings, Now sparkling on that hand of thine, Could tell some truly startling things, If they had tongues or touch like mine. Indeed, indeed, I do not know Of all that thou hast power to grant, A boon for which I could not show Some pretty precedent extant. Suppose, for instance, I should clasp Thus,--so,--and thus!--thy slender waist-- I would not hold within my grasp More than this loosened zone embraced. Oh! put the anger from thine eyes, Or shut them if they still must frown; Those lids, despite yon garish skies, Can bring a timely darkness down. Then, if in that convenient night, My lips should press thy dewy mouth, The touch shall be so soft, so light, Thou 'lt fancy me--this gentle South. Second Love Could I reveal the secret joy Thy presence always with it brings, The memories so strangely waked Of long forgotten things, The love, the hope, the fear, the grief, Which with that voice come back to me,-- Thou wouldst forgive the impassioned gaze So often turned on thee. It was, indeed, that early love, But foretaste of this second one,-- The soft light of the morning star Before the morning sun. The same dark beauty in her eyes, The same blonde hair and placid brow, The same deep-meaning, quiet smile Thou bendest on me now, She might have been, she WAS no more Than what a prescient hope could make,-- A dear presentiment of thee I loved but for thy sake. Hymn Sung at the Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C. Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death! In the false aspect of a ruthless foe, Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath-- O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so? Thou rather shouldst be crowned with fadeless flowers, Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue; Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers, But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.