And wherefore did they whip thee so, To give thy voice this sound of wo, Which comes so plaintively to show That they have used thee ill? Didst thou go through the woods alone, Where brambly snares had thickly grown When thou wast taught thy piteous tone And story, "Whip-poor-will?" There have they made thee all the day In silence hide thyself away, To lose the light, the flash, the play Of sun, and fount, and rill? And didst thou now steal out, afraid Of midnight in the coppice shade, That here thy tender plaint is made Again, sad Whip-poor-will? The trembling stars and lunar gleam, That fitful in the thicket beam, Perhaps would make poor Willie dream His foes were round him still. And in the copse-wood, dark and deep, A waving flower, or leaflet's sweep Might startle thee, in troubled sleep To murmur, "Whip-poor-will!" My bird, there 's mystery in thy strain-- A power I might resist in vain, With mournful joy--with pleasing pain My inmost soul to thrill. 'T is memory stirs to wet my eye By waking shades of days gone by, When first, a child, I heard the cry So solemn, "Whip-poor-will." I call thee bird, yet thou may'st be A spirit! for I cannot see-- I ne'er could catch a glimpse of thee; And undiscovered still The vision form, that might appear, Wert thou to sight revealed as clear, As is thy presence to mine ear, Mysterious Whip-poor-will. THE AUTUMN ROSE-BUD. Come out, pretty Rose-Bud, my lone, timid one! Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun; For little he does, in these dull autumn hours, At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers. His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays, Will give it a blush that no other can raise; Thy fine silken petals they 'll softly unfold, And fill their pure centre with spices and gold. I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth; But beauty, we know, is the offspring of health; And health, the fair daughter of freedom, is bright With feasting on breezes, and drinking the light. Then come, pretty bud; from thy covert look out, And see what the glad, golden sun is about: His shafts, should they strike thee, will only impart A grace to thy form, and a sweet to thy heart. TO L. A. E. ON HER WEDDING-DAY. That I _will_ "be near" on thy "bridal day"-- Be with thee before we are ten hours older, This hasty messenger comes to say, And bringing its witness,--a pearly _folder_.