I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces,-- How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. * * * * * HELEN. High-born Helen, round your dwelling These twenty years I've paced in vain: Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty Hath been to glory in his pain. High-born Helen, proudly telling Stories of thy cold disdain; I starve, I die, now you comply, And I no longer can complain. These twenty years I've lived on tears, Dwelling forever on a frown; On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread; I perish now you kind are grown. Can I, who loved my beloved But for the scorn "was in her eye," Can I be moved for my beloved, When she "returns me sigh for sigh?" In stately pride, by my bedside, High-born Helen's portrait's hung; Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays Are nightly to the portrait sung. To that I weep, nor ever sleep, Complaining all night long to her-- _Helen, grown old, no longer cold,_ _Said,_ "You to all men I prefer." * * * * * A VISION OF REPENTANCE. I saw a famous fountain, in my dream, Where shady pathways to a valley led; A weeping willow lay upon that stream, And all around the fountain brink were spread Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, Forming a doubtful twilight--desolate and sad. The place was such, that whoso enter'd in, Disrobèd was of every earthly thought, And straight became as one that knew not sin, Or to the world's first innocence was brought; Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground, In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around. A most strange calm stole o'er my soothèd sprite; Long time I stood, and longer had I staid, When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight, Which came in silence o'er that silent shade, Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR Made, of that weeping-willow, garlands for her hair. And eke with painful fingers she inwove Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn-- "The willow garland, _that_ was for her love, And _these_ her bleeding temples would adorn." With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell, As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.