He came next spring, with a smile as gay, (At the time the East wind blows,) And another bright creature he led away, With a cheek like a burning rose. And he came once more, when the spring was blue, And whispered the last to rest, And bore her away,--yet nobody knew The name of the fearful guest! Next year, there was none but the rich man left,-- Left alone in his pride and pain, Who called on the stranger, like one bereft, And sought through the land,--in vain! He came not: he never was heard nor seen Again; (so the story saith;) But, wherever his terrible smile had been, Men shuddered, and talked of--Death! THE QUADROON. Say they that all beauty lies In the paler maiden's hue? Say they that all softness flies, Save from the eyes of April blue? Arise then, like a night in June, Beautiful Quadroon! Come,--all dark and bright, as skies With the tender starlight hung! Loose the love from out thine eyes! Loose the angel from thy tongue! Let them hear heaven's own sweet tune, Beautiful Quadroon! Tell them--Beauty (born above) From no shade nor hue doth fly: All she asks is mind, is love: And both upon _thine_ aspect lie,-- Like the light upon the moon, Beautiful Quadroon. THE PAST. This common field, this little brook-- What is there hidden in these two, That I so often on them look, Oftener than on the heavens blue? No beauty lies upon the field; Small music doth the river yield; And yet I look and look again, With something of a pleasant pain. 'Tis thirty--_can't_ be thirty years, Since last I stood upon this plank. Which o'er the brook its figure rears, And watch'd the pebbles as they sank? How white the stream! I still remember Its margin glassed by hoar December, And how the sun fell on the snow: Ah! can it be so long ago? It cometh back;--so blithe, so bright, It hurries to my eager ken. As though but one short winter's night Had darkened o'er the world since then. It is the same clear dazzling scene;-- Perhaps the grass is scarce as green; Perhaps the river's troubled voice Doth not so plainly say--"Rejoice." Yet Nature surely never ranges, Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown;-- But, ever joyful, merely changes The primrose for the thistle-down. 'Tis _we_ alone who, waxing old, Look on her with an aspect cold, Dissolve her in our burning tears, Or clothe her with the mists of years! Then, why should not the grass be green? And why should not the river's song Be merry,--as they both have been When I was here an urchin strong? Ah, true--too true! I see the sun Through thirty winter years hath run. For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook, Usurp the urchin's laughing look!