A deep alcove where clambering vine Enfashioned wreathes of green festoon, Where through the long, long afternoon No ray of summer's sultry shine E'er kissed the rustic grape-vine swing: High up the purpling muscadine Clung close to where the waters poured, And he saw the glint of the redbird's wing In the crystal wave of the mossy spring, As she stooped for the Old Drinking Gourd. The odor tint of elder bloom The zephyrs wafted through the spray Was fresh as dew at dawn of day, Caught in the geometric loom, Arachne plies with subtle hand: A pigeon bathed his snowy plume, A fading speck the vulture soared; And a tide swept in across the sand As they stood on the brink of the golden strand And drank from the Old Drinking Gourd. * * * * * A palace wrought of art sublime Where antique paintings haunt the walls, And gilded foot as silent falls In depths of plush, as flight of time, And liquid music softer blows Than Hymen's mellow golden chime: They plighted troth beneath the sword Of the knight that wore the blood red rose; But they drank of the cup that never flows From the bowl of the Old Drinking Gourd. Now sunset spills his scarlet dyes Through fleecy rifts of snowy cloud, And night puts on her ebon shroud, And stars look out of wintry skies: Still spacious halls with revels ring Where chivalry with beauty vies, And red-wine flows at festive board. But oh! for the cove where the redbirds sing By the crystal wave of the mossy spring, And a draught from the Old Drinking Gourd. A SPOOL OF SILK SOLITUDE To live alone where man nor beast e'er stood, Ten-thousand miles beyond the site of home; To walk at night the catacombs of Rome, Or dwell within some deep death-haunted wood; To feel like Bonaparte with power endued, Yet doomed to sleep beneath the starry dome, And listen to the ocean chafe and foam,-- Not this, not all of these, is solitude. But oh, to be alone within the hive Of teeming life, where thousands live and move And have their shallow beings,--there to strive With doubt and faith, and feel the soul expand Beyond the utmost reach of those we love, And know that they can never understand. LOVE'S TRIUMPH _To Hart's Triumph of Chastity (destroyed by fire)_ Ah, shattered form, thy beauty, chaste as frost, Once held in thrall the heart of lord and swain. While Cupid sped his strongest shafts in vain Thou didst not dream the price thy triumph cost, Or know thy charm would be forever lost, When Time with jealous wind or flood should stain Thy snowy brow in grime or part in twain Thy marble heart in fervent holocaust!