Thou'rt like the Indian matron, who adorns her baby fair, E'er she gives it to the Ganges' flood, all bright, to perish there; Thou callest out the trusting buds with the lustre of thy sky, And clothest them in hues of Heaven all gloriously--to die. Thou'rt like the tyrant lover, wooing soft his gentle bride-- Anon the fit of passion comes--and her smitten heart hath died; The tyrant's smile may come again, and thy cheering noonday skies, But smitten hearts and flowers are woo'd, in vain, again to rise. * * * * * Thy reign was short, thou Beautiful, but they were despot's hours-- The gold leaves met the forest ground, and fallen are the flowers; Ah, 'tis the bitterness of earth, that fairest, goodliest show, Comes to the heart deceitfully, and leaves the deeper wo. ELIZA. _Maine_. MOTHER AND CHILD. CHILD. Where, mother, where have the fire-flies been All the day long, that their light was not seen? MOTHER. They've been 'mong the flowers and flown through the air, But could not be seen--for the sunshine was there. And thus, little girl, in thy morning's first light, There are many things hid from thy mind's dazzled sight, Which the ev'ning of life will too clearly reveal, And teach thee to see--or, it may be, to feel. CHILD. Where, mother, where will the fire-flies go When the chilling snows fall and the winter winds blow? MOTHER. The tempest o'ercomes them, but cannot destroy: For the spring time awakes them to sunshine and joy. And thus, little girl, when life's seasons are o'er, And thy joys and thy hopes and thy griefs are no more, May'st thou rise from death's slumbers to high worlds of light, Where all things are joyous, and all things are bright. IMOGENE. LINES Written on one of the blank leaves of a book sent to a friend in England. As he who sails afar on southern seas, Catches rich odor on the evening breeze, Turns to the shore whence comes the perfum'd air, And knows, though all unseen, some flower is there-- Thus, when o'er ocean's wave these pages greet Thine eye, with many a line from minstrel sweet, Think of Virginia's clime far off and fair, And know, though all unseen, a friend is there. IMOGENE. THE BROKEN HEART. ... The morning dew-drop, With all its pearliness and diamond form Vanisheth. * * * * * ... She turned her from the gate, and walked As quietly into her father's hall, As though her lover had been true. No trace Of disappointment or of hate was found Upon the maiden's brow: but settled calm, And dignity unequalled. And they spoke To her, and she did mildly answer them And smiled: and smiling, seem'd so like an angel, That you would think the man who could desert A form so lovely, after he had won Her warm affections, must be more than demon.