Love may light on thy snowy cheek, And shake his Eden-breathing plumes; Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles, Or Angelina blooms. Satire may lift his bearded lance, Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe, And, scattered on thy little field, Disjointed bards may writhe. Perchance a vision of the night, Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin, Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along, Or skeleton may grin. If it should be in pensive hour Some sorrow-moving theme I try, Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall, For all I doom to die! But if in merry mood I touch Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips As ripples on the sea. The Weekly press shall gladly stoop To bind thee up among its sheaves; The Daily steal thy shining ore, To gild its leaden leaves. Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak, Till distant shores shall hear the sound; Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe Fresh life on all around. Thou art the arena of the wise, The noiseless battle-ground of fame; The sky where halos may be wreathed Around the humblest name. Take, then, this treasure to thy trust, To win some idle reader's smile, Then fade and moulder in the dust, Or swell some bonfire's pile. TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN" IN THE ATHENIEUM GALLERY IT may be so,--perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art. That thing thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be,-- In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee. Those eyes,--among thine elder friends Perhaps they pass for blue,-- No matter,--if a man can see, What more have eyes to do? Thy mouth,--that fissure in thy face, By something like a chin,-- May be a very useful place To put thy victual in. I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild. That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee. Above thy mantel is a hook,-- A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament,-- Alas! that hook is bare. She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain; She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again. It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say! And often in her calmer hours, And in her happy dreams, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems. Thy wretched infant turns his head In melancholy wise, And looks to meet the placid stare Of those unbending eyes. I never saw thee, lovely one,-- Perchance I never may; It is not often that we cross Such people in our way; But if we meet in distant years, Or on some foreign shore, Sure I can take my Bible oath, I've seen that face before. THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN