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68  MARIA A. BROOKS.

SONG.

Oh, my Phronema! how thy yellow hair
Was fragrant, when, by looks alone carest,
I felt it, wafted by the pitying air,
Float o'er my lips, and touch my fervid breast!

How my least word lent colour to thy cheek!
And how thy gentle form would heave and swell,
As if the love thy heart contain'd, would break
That warm pure shrine where nature bade it dwell.

We parted; years are past, and thou art dead;
Never, Phronema, can I see thee more!
One little ringlet of thy graceful head
Lies next my heart; 't is all I may adore.

Torn from thy sight, to save a life of gloom,
Hopes unaccomplish'd, warmest wishes crost—
How can I longer bear my weary doom?
Alas! what have I gain'd for all I lost?

MORNING.

(FROM THE SAME.)

How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun!—
The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires
As much thy beauty, now life's dream is done,
As when he moved exulting in his fires.

The infant strains his little arms, to catch
The rays that glance about his silken hair;
And Luxury hangs her amber lamps, to match
Thy face, when turned away from bower and palace fair.

Sweet to the lip, the draught, the blushing fruit;
Music and perfumes mingle with the soul;
How thrills the kiss, when feeling's voice is mute;
And light and beauty's tints enhance the whole.


MARIA A. BROOKS.  69

Yet each keen sense were dulness but for thee;
Thy ray to joy, love, virtue, genius, warms;
Thou never weariest; no inconstancy
But comes to pay new homage to thy charms.

How many lips have sung thy praise, how long!
Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels thee woo,
The pleasured bard pours forth another song,
And finds in thee, like love, a theme for ever new.

Thy dark-eyed daughters come in beauty forth
In thy near realms; and, like their snow-wreaths fair,
The bright-hair'd youths and maidens of the North,
Smile in thy colours when thou art not there.

'T is there thou bid'st a deeper ardour glow,
And higher, purer reveries completest;
As drops that farthest from the ocean flow,
Refining all the way, from springs the sweetest.

Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night,
Some wretch impassion'd, from sweet morning's breath,
Turns his hot brow and sickens at thy light;
But Nature, ever kind, soon heals or gives him death.

TWILIGHT THOUGHTS.

(FROM THE SAME.)

SWEET is the evening twilight; but, alas!
There's sadness in it: day's light tasks are done,
And leisure sighs to think how soon must pass
Those tints that melt o'er heaven, O setting sun,

And look like heaven dissolved.  A tender flush
Of blended rose and purple light, o'er all
The luscious landscape spreads like pleasure's blush,
And glows o'er wave, sky, flower, cottage, and palm-tree tall.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-27 16:36:27 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-27 22:58:18