********************START OF HEADER******************** This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place. Title: Poems, By Mattie Griffith, an electronic edition Author: Browne, Martha Griffith, d. 1906 Publisher: D. Appleton & Co. Place published: Date: 1852 ********************END OF HEADER******************** Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithPOEMS, BY MATTIE GRIFFITH. Now first Collected.NEW YORK: D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY, AND 16 LITTLE BRITAIN, LONDON. M.DCCC.LIII.TO THE GREAT PEOPLE OF KENTUCKY, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE HUMBLEST AND MOST DEVOTED OF KENTUCKY'S DAUGHTERS.THE AUTHOR.CONTENTS. THE DYING GIRL, . . . . . . . . . . 9 THE LOVERS' LAST MEETING . . . . . . . . . . 16 LOOK AMD LIST, LOVE, . . . . . . . . . . 25 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR, . . . . . . . . . . 30 MOONLIGHT, . . . . . . . . . . 36 TO SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, BART, . . . . . . . . . . 40 ON THE DEATH OF MISS NANNIE C*****, . . . . . . . . . . 46 THE HERMIT, . . . . . . . . . . 50 TO MY SISTER, . . . . . . . . . . 54 TO MISS JULIA DEAN, . . . . . . . . . . 58 STARLIGHT MUSINGS, . . . . . . . . . . 63 THE DESERTED, . . . . . . . . . . 69 THOU LOVEST ME NO MORE, . . . . . . . . . . 75 MY BIRTH-DAY, . . . . . . . . . . 80 THE STUDENT, . . . . . . . . . . 84 IN MEMORY OF MRS. ADELINE K. O'BRIEN, . . . . . . . . . . 88 CLOSE OF THE YEAR, . . . . . . . . . . 92 TO MY GEORGIE, . . . . . . . . . . 97 IN MEMORY OF MY FATHER, . . . . . . . . . . 101 THE LONE ONE AT THE OLD TRYSTING-PLACE, . . . . . . . . . . 105 LINES TO MISS -------, . . . . . . . . . . 109 To -----------, . . . . . . . . . . 111 MY MOTHER, . . . . . . . . . . 116 TO J. R. BARRICK, . . . . . . . . . . 120 THE ORPHAN, . . . . . . . . . . 123 IMPROMPTU, . . . . . . . . . . 126 LIFE, . . . . . . . . . . 130 THE YOUNG MOTHER, . . . . . . . . . . 135 TO C. W. A., OF TAYLORSVILLE, . . . . . . . . . . 138 TO A FRIEND, . . . . . . . . . . 141 BROKEN BARBITION -- WITHERED LAUREL-WREATH AND BROKEN HEART, . . . . . . . . . . 143 THE ORPHAN'S DREAM OF FAME, . . . . . . . . . . 148 A TRIFLE TO A FRIEND, . . . . . . . . . . 153 THE URN OF THE HEART, . . . . . . . . . . 156 RECOLLECTIONS, . . . . . . . . . . 159 TO ---------, DURING HIS ILLNESS, . . . . . . . . . . 164Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Dying Girl.THROW open yonder window, sister dear,For all seems gloomy and oppressive here;I feel, alas! that I am dying now,But the warm breeze may breathe upon my brow,And o'er my heart a soft and holy spell,Bidding my faint and failing spirit swellWith the dear thoughts and visions that had powerTo brighten life in childhood's fairy hour.I go, sweet sister, to yon far blue landWhere dwell the blest, a bright, angelic band,Where radiant spirits chant their burning lay,Their song of immortality, and strayBeside the streams soft-gleaming 'mid the flowersAnd rainbow-groves of Eden's blessed bowers,And there I shall behold our mother's face,And she will clasp me in her dear embrace!And yet, oh yet, it grieves my heart, dear love,To leave thee here, a young and tender dove,Lone-wandering o'er life's waters cold and dark,Ne'er to find rest save in God's holy ark;But there, when Time's wild storms at last shall ceaseThy weary pinions will repose in peace,And their bright plumage never more be castAll torn and scattered on the bitter blast. * * * * * *I'm musing now, my sister, on the time,When we in our own dear, our native clime,With our sweet mother in our childhood dwelt,Gay as the singing birds, and never feltThe care, the grief, the agony, the strife,That lurk like fiends along the paths of life.There round our home the rose with crimson dyeBared its young heart of beauty to the eye,There sprang the violets, and the lilies there,Pale nuns of nature, bowed their heads in prayer;The jasmine, sweetest of the race of flowers,Breathed its full soul of fragrance in the bowers;Above the window of our little roomThe honeysuckle hung in clustering bloom,Before our door the bright blue streamlet played,Leaping and dimpling in the light and shade,And the tall trees of deep and solemn greenUpon the far horizon seemed to leanLike holy watchers of the golden sky,The sentinels of immortality.And there, O sister, lay the burial ground,A lonely spot where broke no rude, harsh sound,And where the mournful grave-stones rose to keepTheir silent vigils o'er each place of sleep,And where at times we wander'd with hushed breathTo view the sad memorials of death.There, sister, sleep our old ancestral line,And I would lay this weary head of mineBeside their forms, and I would have a roseTo shed its sweetness o'er my still repose,A rose, dear sister, planted by thy care,Wooing the bright young birds to linger there,And sweetly sing my mouldering form above,To God their little songs of joy and love.Methinks 'twould soothe my spirit thus to lieIn that dear spot beneath our natal sky,And hear (if spirits may) on Spring's soft evesOur natal breezes stir the dewy leaves,Waking the melodies that were so dearAnd yet so mournful to my childhood's ear.Oh! chide me not, sweet sister, if I weepThat these fond dreams are idle. I must sleepHere in this cold, strange land, far, far awayFrom all I knew and loved in life's young day,Far from the ashes of the brave and fairWho bore the name that we are proud to bear,And who have gone before me to their homeIn the high halls of you star-lighted dome.Forms all unknown will slumber near my side,The poor remains, perchance, of wealth and pride,And shafted monuments around will rise,Mocking the green turf where the lone one lies.But, sister, thou at gentle close of day,Wilt often come upon my grave to layThe fading flowers, sad emblems of the fateOf the young stranger, lone and desolate.And, sister dear, when thou shalt come to shedLove's sacred tears above my humble bed,I pray thee speak to me, and thou shalt hearMy voice soft-stealing on thy spirit-ear,And thou shalt feel, as thrillingly as now,My gentle kisses on thy sad, sweet brow.Thus spake a young girl, pale, but beautifulAs a rapt poet's holiest dreams. The dullCold film of death was soon to dim her eye,Still bright as yon clear jewel of the sky;Bright with the visions of her vanished years,Bright with the rainbow pictured on her tearsBy love's and memory's pure and tender beams,Soft-shining through her spirit's shadowy dreams.Down her fair form her clustering locks hung low,Like willow-boughs above a drift of snow;On her pale cheek the fever-flush was bright,Like a red flame upon a cloud of white;Her thin, pale-hand, through which the blue veins shone,In all their windings beautiful, was thrownUpon the crimson drapery of her bed,Like a frail lily among roses red.And there she lay, and tossed in wild unrest,And clasped her weeping sister to her breast,And uttered broken words of prayer and loveTo God upon his mercy-seat above.At length the glories of the sunset skyStole through the window to her wandering eye,And, as her gaze was fixed intensely there,She seemed to see a spirit in the air.Half-rising on her couch, with sudden start,She strove to clasp the vision to her heart,And with a feeble cry of ecstasy,"Oh! mother, stay, I come, I come to thee!Her young soul passed, her dream of earth 'was o'er,Her pulse was still, her heart beat nevermore.UNIONTOWN, PA., July 11.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Lovers' Last Meeting.IT was a calm, still, Sabbath eve--no breezeWent o'er the sleeping flowers, no murmured sound,From Nature's harp of many voices, roseUpon the deep and strange serenityOf the lone death of day. The Lovers metIn the sweet silence of that holy eve,Once more upon the old, familiar spotOf love's dear tryst. Dark months had passed awaySince they had gazed together on that sceneOf deepest, keenest raptures. That young girl,Even in her girlhood's ripening flush, seemed old,And worn in soul. Her pale and withering cheekTold to the heart the tale of many a wild,Fierce struggle of a spirit unsubdued.Her dark eyes gleamed with the intensityOf strange, unspoken griefs, and in their calm,Mysterious fixedness there seemed a high,And deep, and stern resolve, as though her heartOf iron pride might never quail beneathLife's fiercest storms. Yet when she turned those orbsTo his, a gentle, melancholy smilePlayed round their lids, and quivering tear-drops hung,Like the bright gems of dewy morning, o'erTheir dark and stormy depths. And he on whomHer glance of love fell, piercing his deep soul,His soul of strong and manly daring, stoodAll tearfully beside her, and his armAround her slender form was wildly flung,Love's living, burning cestus; and her head,With all its clustering wealth of raven curls,Drooped to his heaving bosom, as a dove,Weary and broken wing'd, sinks to its ownDear parent nest. Her little trembling handWas clasped within his own, her upturned eyeMet his, and drank again the heavenly blissOf dear and sweet reunion. On each paleAnd stricken brow the darkness of a deepAnd solemn shadow rested, and each cheekAnd lip seemed chilled with sorrow's withering frost.Though summer, autumn, winter, spring had passedAgain and yet again since they had met,They gazed into each other's hearts and readNo change in those deep founts of burning love.There no dark raven-wing had brooded--eachHad e'er embalmed with love's pure incense-breathThe image of the other. They had vowedAnd kept their holy truth, and now their loveWas all undimed, though grief had almost crushedThe life from out their souls. The sweet rich glowOf the soft twilight lent its passion-hueOf crimson to her temples, or perchanceIt may have been the deep reflection caughtFrom the wild burning thoughts that raged withinHer shut and silent heart. She did not lookUpon the many flowers, she did not hearThe music of the stream--the fairy tintsOf sunset, the green surging of the woods,The mildly-wooing zephyrs, and the tones,The thousand deep tones of the holy hour,All were unheeded then. Her eyes, her ears,Her thoughts, her soul, her life, were but for him.She leaned upon him with that touching trustAnd holy confidence a saint would feelIn leaning upon heaven. And she to himWas all that mortal creature e'er could beTo a proud child of earth. With lip to lip,And heart quick-throbbing to its throbbing mate,They stood in love's bewildering embrace,Silently clasping in their straining armsAll that they knew of heaven on earth. And thenThey heeded not the passing of the hours,They saw not sunset's glorious roses fadeWithin the west's sky-garden, they but feltThey loved and were supremely blest. At lengthThe thought that they must part stole on their soulsLike the deep shadow of a thunder-cloud.She strove to drive that fearful thought away,But there it stood, a fiend between her soulAnd her bright heaven of joy. Beneath the weightOf her great grief, her head sank down, as bendsThe lily's pale and broken cup beneathThe torrents of the cloud. And then with low,Sweet tones of tenderness, though his own heartWas bursting with its stifled rush of tears,He soothed her fearful agony. He spokeOf joys and raptures past but treasured stillIn memory's sacred chambers, of the hopeThat even then seemed shining with a dimAnd pale but beauteous gleam upon the wavesOf the far distant future. Thus he wonHer spirit from its dark and crushing grief,And bade her turn her thoughts from earth, and lookAbove life's clouds for perfect happinessWithin the skies. He told her how they twoWould wander there, twin-spirits, hand in hand,Beside the lovely Eden streams that glassThe blessed rainbow skies, how they would cullThe sweetest blossoms glowing with the dewsOf heaven, and twine them into beauteous wreaths,Dear love-wreaths, for each other's foreheads; howThey oft would fly upon their spirit-wingsFrom star to star, to read the beautifulAnd blazing mysteries of the sky, and howThey would at times come down from heaven to earthTo sit beside each other on the dearAnd blessed spot where then they sat, and museOn all the raptures shared together there,And breathe again the vows so often breathedIn life from their deep hearts of love, and makeThat scene the tryst of their pure souls in heavenAs 'twas their tryst upon the earth. But thoughBy soft and low and gentle words like these,Breathed in the rich tones that first won her love,He calmed the fiery lava-flood that ragedWithin her tortured heart, he could not sootheThe agony that burned within his own.His soul was strong and haughty. He could bearThe cold world's bitter hate, he faltered notAt "foaming calumny," he did not heedThe piercing blasts of poverty, but when,At that sad hour, he fixed his eyes on her,His bright though fading flower, and thought how sheWould pine in his drear absence from her side,And saw that her young morning-tide of lifeWas ebbing fast away, Oh then his heart,His high, proud heart, sank in his manly breast,His haughty spirit trembled, and a strongConvulsion shook his feathers, and the dropsOf agony welled upward from a fountLong scaled within his bosom, and he weptAs if his heart were broken. And her tearsGushed forth to blend with his, and thus they weptTogether long and wildly. On their earsNow stole the deep tones of the vesper bellAs mournfully as if it had been tolledFor some dear friend. It woke them from their tranceOf paralyzing grief, it pealed and rangFar through the echoing chambers of their souls,And told them with its mocking cadencesThat 'twas the hour, the moment, they must part.All silently, but for one death-like groan,He strained her to his bosom, on her browHe breathed his passion-kisses till it seemedAs if each trembling blood-drop in her frameRushed up to share the maddening embrace--Then with one low, deep, passionate farewell,That sounded as if uttered by his soulThrough still, unbreathing lips, they parted. She,Pale, faint, and weak, with faltering footsteps soughtHer chamber's silent solitude, to pourHer sad soul forth in earnest prayer to GodFor strength to quell the fierce, rebellions thoughtsThat seemed for ever sweeping like a tideOf burning waters o'er her heart. He soughtThe forest's deeper silence, there to holdThrough the still night communion with his soul,And her, and heaven; and, when the morning came,He went with sickening heart and aching browOnce more into the toiling world of men,To struggle with his bitter destiny.'Twas their last parting--a brief year passed by,And lo! a pitying angel came from HeavenAnd joined their fates forever. 'Twas the kindDeath-angel--they are all each other's now.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithLook and List, Love.LIST, love, oh listen as the breezeGoes softly floating by,And to thine ear 'twill sweetly breatheMy young heart's tenderest sigh;And if that breeze hath passed o'er crushedAnd withered flowers, 'twill tell,In saddened cadence, of the griefsThat in my bosom dwell. List, love.List to the music of the stream,The far-off waterfall,And in its low tones thou wilt hearMy spirit's earnest callTo thine, to meet me at the softAnd blessed twilight hour,Where we so oft have loved to meetIn our own wildwood bower.List, love.Look on the glorious hues that waveAlong the sunset sky,Like heavenly banners o'er the hostsOf angels trooping by,And then wilt see my spirit thereSoft beckoning unto thine,To join me in that fairy realm,And be for ever mine.Look, love.Look on the cloudless heavens that rollSo beautiful and fair,And think of all our earnest vowsThat have their record there.And see! the priest of Nature nowSeems bending from above,With his own gentle hand to setThe signet of our love.Look, love.List to the murmurs sweet and wildThat from the ocean swell,Like the mysterious melodiesHeard in its music-shell;And they will speak of memoriesThat in our bosoms sleep,Unseen and beautiful, like pearlsWithin the sea's blue deep.List, love.List to the spirit-minstrelsyThat steals from you bright stars,As in their watch of love they floatHigh on their golden ears;And they will tell thee that the loveTo our young spirits given,Like theirs, shines sweetly on the earthBut has its home in heaven.List, love.Look at our own dear hour of tryst,Upon the passion-flower;I culled and laid upon thy heartIn our own favorite bower;And if thou lov'st me dearly still,Thy gentle eye will traceThe blessed story of our lovesUpon its pale, sweet face.Look, love.Oh! look and listen at the calmAnd holy midnight hour,When love's deep charm o'er human soulsHath strong and mystic power;And thou wilt see my spirit standBeside thee where thou art,And hear it breathe love's burning wordsInto thine ear and heart.Look and list, love.LOUISVILLE, KY., 1852.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Close of the Year.ANOTHER and another! 'Tis the stillAnd solemn hour of midnight. Not a soundOf mortal life disturbs the awful calmThat rests upon the dim and sleeping earth.'Twould seem as if a wizard spell were laidUpon the winds, the woods, the waves, the streams;For all the thousand voices that are wont,In this deep hour of darkness and of dreams,To weave their low, mysterious cadencesIn one wild chant of spirit-melody,Are silent now, and there is naught to tellThe ear that Nature lives. The holy stars,The watchers of the night, are burning faint,Like funeral lamps; the dark cloud-shadows restUpon the still earth like a pall; the hillsAnd mountains stand like mourners; the tall trees,Leafless and solemn, bend their tops like plumesAbove the bier; and lo! a countless throngOf wan and ghastly phantoms seem to comeFrom the dim realm of shadows, to conveyThe Old Year to his burial. He is gone!He breathed no sigh or groan in his death-hour,But with the awful stillness of a dream,Passed to the mystic realm where dwell the shadesOf years that passed before him. One more wave,Bright with our smiles and bitter with our tears,A wave that has reflected star and cloud,The blue sky and the tempest's wrath, is lostIn the great ocean of Eternity,Whose dark and dread and shoreless waters hideThe wrecks of empires and the wrecks of worldsFrom every eye but God's. Ah! gazing backUpon the parted year, we darkly mournIts rich and wasted treasures. We recall,With keen remorse, life's follies and its crimes,And tears are swelling in our stricken hearts--Vain tears, alas how vain! And see! besideThe shadowy spectre of the silent Past,A sad and sorrowing Angel seems to stand,Who, in a tone as mournful as the cryOf a lost Soul, rebukes us for our deedsOf error, and implores us to be trueTo earth and Heaven in all the coming timeThat may be ours beneath the skies. Here, here,At one year's burial and another's birth,Here, on this narrow isthmus in the sea,Time's ever surging sea, oh let us pauseAnd deeply muse upon the two vast worlds,Spread out on either hand before our eyes,The Past and Future. From this lonely height,Straining our gaze far backward o'er the plainThat we have swiftly traversed, we behold,All thickly scattered o'er the dreary space,Unnumbered mounds, which mark the graves of joys,And loves, and hopes that thronged around our path,To charm our eyes and win our happy heartsBy their sweet smiles and wild enchanting tones,And then sank down to mingle with the dust,Like exhalations of the morning. WeLook earnestly upon the fairy vales,Where, in life's spring-time hours, we lingered longTo gather garlands of sweet flowers to deckThe heart's own altars--but no flowers are there.The Autumn winds and Winter tempests sweptAbove their blooming loveliness, and theyPerished in their bright beauty, and their soulsOf perfume passed to Heaven. With wearied eyes,And sad and aching hearts, we turn awayFrom the lone desolations of the past,To gaze upon Futurity, and there,Through the long vista of the years, we see,With fancy's eye, rich vales, as beautifulAs those through which in childhood's hours we roved;And there, joys, hopes, and loves, as fresh and brightAs those which sprang and perished by our side,Seem flitting in the distance, wild and free,And sweetly beckoning us to where they dwell,Like a young troop of Fairies. A New Year,A new, unsullied year, is ours. Its pageIs sealed; we know not what is folded there;We know not whether joy or agony,We know not whether life or death, is writWithin the fearful scroll, but 'tis enoughTo know the gift is God's. Within our breasts,Amid love's blasted buds, joy's faded wreaths,And hope's pale, withered garlands, one bright flowerIs still uncrushed, undimmed, the holy flowerOf Faith divine. We feel, we know that He,Who hath preserved us 'mid the thousand ills,The countless dangers lurking in our paths,Still holds us in the hollow of His hand,And bids us trust in Him. Farewell, Old Year!May we, when called, like thee, from earth away,Obey, like thee, the summons, calm, serene,Without one sigh, or groan, or wild heart-throbTo mark the moment of dissolving life.And oh may we, within the Eden land,Where angel wings are glancing through the air,And seraph songs are poured from rainbow clouds,Once more embrace the loved and lost whom thouHast taken from us in thy silent flight.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithMoonlight.AS here I sit within my lonely room,A spirit seems abroad upon the air,That o'er me flings an influence mild and sweet,Yet mournful and mysterious. It is soft,And calm, and hallowed, yet so very sad,That tears are on my eyelids. It unlocksMemory's pale urn, and to my soul revealsTreasures long hidden in its depths. It callsForth, from their cold and silent graves, the formsOf dearly loved one's faded long ago.They seem to live again; they move once moreBeside me as they moved in life; they breatheSweet accents in my ear; they rise from earthOn angel plumes, and gently beckon meThrough the soft, silvery mists that float around,To follow them upon their longAnd shining trail of glory. 'Tis a strangeBut pure and blessed spirit, for each thoughtIt makes is pure and blessed. Every dreamIt brings is soft, and deep, and beautifulAs 'twere an Eden vision. And, oh, see!A pale, unearthly light is in the air,Chastening the shadows that dance fitfullyAlong the silent walls; and now I feelMy cheek and brow are hallowed by its pureAnd radiant baptism. Ah, it is the sweetSoft spirit of the Moonlight. 'Tis the gleamOf yonder "Queen of mysteries," wandering forthLike a pale nun in heaven. Lone-musing hereAmid the shadows of my curtained room,I saw it not, but yet I felt its spellSteal through the air and sink into my soul,As with an angel power. And lo! as nowI gaze out from my window on the earth,How softly and how beautifully beamsThe moonlight over nature. The young leavesTurn up their edges to its silver glow,And quiver with their rapture. The blue isles,The streams, the hills, the forests and the cloudsSeem things of fairy-land, for beauty floatsLike a wild dream around them. Gentle moon!Pale, lonely mistress of the solemn night!The tides of my young bosom heave and swell,Even as the tides of ocean, to thy strongMysterious power! Oh! fill my breast with lightFrom thy high sun, and touch each shadowy thought,Each dark and gloomy fancy of my heart,With thy unclouded beams. There is a pureSweet moonlight of the soul, that from the skyShines on our earthly spirits, silvering o'erEach depth of doubt, and sin, and agonyWith the celestial beauty of its beams,And bidding every shadow melt away;RELIGION is THAT brightener of the soul,And life's dark waters glowing in its light,Mirror the wondrous glories of the heavens.LOUISVILLIE, MARCH 15.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithTo Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.MY cousin, I have never seen thee--yetFrom childhood's early years my dearest thoughtsHave been so full of thee, I almost seemTo know thee well. From thy high soul, my soulHas caught its inspiration. I have feltMy spirit rise exulting with thine own,To share the blessed sunbeam and the breeze.But when, in thy proud majesty of strength,Thou hast sprung upward to the skies to rideAt will on passion's maddening storm of fire,My young heart, faint and weak with its excessOf voiceless adoration, has sunk downBefore thee, its deep pride, its strength, its life,All, all forgotten in its silent aweToward a bright being of the earth so high,And glorious, and grand. Oh I have thoughtAs o'er thy bright and burning page my heartWrapt in wild flame, has poured its mightiest love,How like a demi-god thou art, thou proudAnd sceptred monarch of the realm of mind!The human soul, with all its mystic chordsOf joy and woe, and hope and holy love,Is thine own instrument, from which thy handAwakens tones whose echoes will be heardThrough all the coming years, far sounding o'erThe ocean of the future ages. ThouArt a magician of strange power; thou canstDraw healing sweets from poisons; thou canst makeThe darkest, deadliest passions wear the huesOf beauty and religion; all things, glassedWithin thy fancy's mirror-wave, assumeThe holy tints of heaven. With wizard spellThou stirrest the deep fountains of my lifeUntil I worship thee, and feel myselfExalted by such worship. Thou dost standUpon thy own high pyramid of mind,As on some lofty mountain-height, and waveThy mighty wand, and myriads of brightAnd fearful shapes, all things of heaven and earth,Come thronging on the wild, careering winds,The vassals of thy bidding. Cousin, IHave deemed that, like the brave old Titan, thouHast stolen fire from heaven wherewith to warmThe frozen world of thought, but thou wilt not,Like him, be destined to the chain, the rock,And the fierce vulture at the heart, for Jove,The Tyrant, rules no more in heaven, and GodIs justice, love, and mercy. Cousin, thouHast said thou lovest me, and in that loveMy bosom proud feels all the rapturous joyE'er dreamed of on the earth. We have not met,And I could pray that we might never meet,For stern reality hath cruel powerTo cheat bright fancy of her thousand spells.To thee I would be ever as a thingOf youth and love, which, though from thee afar,Is still a part of thee. Oh let the light,The love-light of these tearful eyes of mine,Shine on thee in the beam of some pure star;Let my low voice steal o'er thee in the soundOf melancholy winds through midnight rains;Let the soft, dewy pinions of the breeze,As, laden with the perfume of the flowers,It comes to fan thy forehead, bear to theeA kiss from my young spirit; let me beAs a soft, blessed tone of melodyTo stir with gentleness the passion-depthsOf thy great soul; and when on some lone eveI send, as now, my spirit to communeWith thine, oh give it one sweet, dewy flowerFrom out the rich rose-garden of thy soul,One little diamond from thy priceless mineOf bright and glorious thought, one gentle sighFrom thy deep spirit, mournful with the wildExcess of dreaming passion far too richTo find its proper guerdon in a cold,Unfeeling world like this. Oh cousin mine,Thou art my deep idolatry. I've dreamedOft of the glory of our ancient raceWhich lives again in thee. I've deemed the pride,Which in the great Llewellyn dimly shone,In thee all perfected. I've sat and musedOn thee with blissful tears, until my soulHas from thy fancy's glorious well-spring drawnVisions of love and immortality.In musings I have ofttimes stood with theeIn ancient Knebworth, and with thee have strayedThrough its time-honored shades, while thy rich tonesHave thrilled my spirit's lyre, and wakened thoughtsTo sleep no more for ever. Cousin dear,This humble wreath that here I send to theeIs woven of my spirit's bleeding flowers.Oh do not scorn the chaplet, for 'tis fresh,And pure, and softly glowing with the heart'sFirst morning dews. My cousin, fare thee well.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithOn the Death of Miss Nannie C*****.DEAR, lovely girl, my thoughts are thine in this sweet twilight hour,The young, the bright, the beautiful, gone like a stricken flower;A thousand holy memories are rushing o'er my heart,And there thine image seems once more to life and love to start;I see thy dark and clustering curls around thy gentle face,Thy soft black eye, thy rosy lip, and all thy witching grace,And hear the cadence of thy voice come sweetly stealing by,Like music from some fairy fount beneath the moonlight sky.Oh couldst thou, sweet and gentle girl, on earth no longer dwell?Had thy dear mother's love no power to hold thee with its spell?Had thy sweet sister's pleading voice no tone to keep thee here?Had life no charm to make thy home than paradise more dear?Ah no, the bright, the angel band bent gently from the sky,And wooed and won thee to their home, their own blest home on high.And there, beneath the holy shade of myriad starry wings,Thou wanderest 'mid the living flowers of heaven's own living springs,To hear the lofty music tones, the hymns of rolling spheres,Blend with thy own soul melodies through God's eternal years.But oh! does deeper, tenderer love in those high realms have birth,Than that which lives and throbs and weeps in human hearts on earth?The thousand blossoms that have died beneath thee Autumn blast,Will bloom in future Springs as bright as in the Springs long past;The rose and violet will lift their cups of white and blue,As erst at morn and mournful eve to catch the falling dew;The bright wing'd birds will pour their songs of love from every tree,The bright young streams with ringing shout leap onward to the sea;But naught of these can ever pierce the cold and silent shade,Where, with thine arms upon thy breast, thy lovely form is laid.Yet come to us, dear Nannie, come, in this soft, stilly hour,And tell us of thy happy home in Heaven's immortal bower;I know that thou art there, for all thy thoughts beneath the skiesWere beauteous as an Angel's dream asleep in Paradise.And, oh I ask that when thy hymns of ecstasy ascend,Thoul't breathe one deep and holy prayer for thy poor, erring friend,Who still, with weary step must tread, in loneliness and gloom,Uncheered by flower or blessed star, her pathway to the tomb.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Hermit.IT was a cold and bitter winter night.The keen winds howled around like beasts of preySeeking for victims. A white shroud of snowCovered the desolate and lonely moorOn which a cottage stood. A single lampShone through the window, shedding faintly roundA melancholy light. Within those wallsDwelt the lone Hermit of the moor, and nowUpon the bard and stony floor he kneltIn fervent prayer to Heaven. Beside him layThe rosary, the missal, and the scourge;No fire was on his cold and cheerless hearth;The bread and water on table stoodUntasted; his thin, bloodless hands were claspedUpon his breast; his blue, beseeching eye,Tearless as if its orb were seared with flame,Looked earnestly to Heaven; the corded veins,That lay upon his brow an temples pale,Throbbed visibly as if a living fireWere burning in their currents; his thin lip,Of ashen hue, was quivering; purple dropsWere on his naked shoulders, and his frameStill writhed and trembled from the blood-stained lashOf his fierce penance; and, as there he turnedUpward his suffering face to Heaven, his wordsOf penitence and supplication seemedTo steal up from the caverns of his soulLike moans of keenest agony. That nightThe hermit passed in meditation, prayer,And fierce and bitter penance for the sinsOf early youth. But HER dear image still,The image of the sweet and gentle oneThat he had loved so passionately, rose'Mid all his maddening tortures and his prayersBetween him and his God. The hours wore on,And when at length the first gray light of mornDawned in the orient sky, he laid his chillAnd trembling form upon his couch to checkIn sleep forbidden memories. In vain!The dear, the loved one, pale and beautiful,Came softly stealing to his side in dreams,And bent above him, and her sweet blue eyeGazed mournfully in his, her tender lipWas pressed upon his forehead, and her voice,In tones of more than earthly melody,Was wildly breathing in his ear againLove's unforgotten words. The sun arose,And then the hermit's sleep was dreamless; brightThe beam lay on the rigid brow of death.But on his breast, beneath the sackcloth robe,Was found the picture of his early lovePressed o'er his throbless heart. They buried himUpon that dismal moor, and when the SpringSmiled sweetly on the earth, a stranger came,A gentle lady, deeply bowed with grief,And planted flowers upon his lonely grave!LOUISVILLE, KY.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithTo My Sister.SWEET sister, thou art very beautiful,Thy wild and dark eye-flashes, burns and glowsWith glorious spirit-lustre, and a spellOf deep and holy witchery looks outFrom its clear depths in many a glance of love,A fervid glance of love and loveliness.Thy pale, pale cheek, o'er which the faintest blushOf crimson fades out, like the passion-breathOf sunset o'er a snowy cloud; thy pureHigh brow, so beautiful, and eloquent,With the proud majesty of lofty thought;The waving wealth of midnight hair that floatsAround thy forehead, like a stormy cloudRound a white monument; thy parting lipsSo red, so rich, so like the opening roseWhile yet the soft and early dew-drop blendsWith its wild perfume; thy bewitching smileOf strange, bright beauty, like a glance just caughtFrom the closed portals of the Eden clime;Thy form, thy seraph form, that floats and glidesUpon the earth in dreamlike loveliness,As 'twere the very spirit of a strainOf sweet and wild AEolian melodyMade visible to mortal eyes; thy softAnd gentle voice, that through my spirit sendsIts thrill, like low and mournful music heardO'er the still waters of the midnight deepAll these seem stealing on my eye and ear,And lingering with me in my lonely hours,To fashion blessed dreams of thee and heavenWithin my glowing soul. Thou, sister dear,Art on the earth, not of it. Thy pure wingIs here chained back from thy own native heaven.Thou art a gentle angel that my GodHath sent to soften, purify, and sootheMy soul of fierce unrest. To me thy loveIs the bright bow that spans life's darkest storm,An angel bending from the tempest-cloud.We two have wept o'er our dear mother's grave,Together we have bowed our heads and prayedFor strength from Heaven to shield us from the sternDeep agonies of life. Our mother sleepsAfar, and we, the children of her love,Are left to buffet life's dark waves alone.No, not alone, for at the solemn hourOf holy midnight, on the moon's pale beamsThat mother seeks her loved ones on the earth,To whisper strength and comfort to their hearts.Oh then, sweet sister, let us gird ourselvesFor life's great battle, safe beneath her wingFrom every pain and danger. Sister mine!I've marked with bitter, bitter agonyThy fast decline--yet ah! it cannot beThat thou wilt leave me here alone, alone,Upon the cold dull earth. Alas! I fearOur gentle mother would not come to meIf thou wert gone. Oh leave me not--the darkDread thought seems writhing in my burning brain,Like a wild scorpion in a sea of flame,And dreams of madness curdle my heart's blood,And wake the gloomy passions slumbering farBeneath the bright stream of my better thoughts.Thou wilt stay with me--yes, our mother's smileE'en now bids me be calm, and lo! the wavesOf maddening fear are slowly ebbing back,To Heaven's own music-tone of "Peace! be still"Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithTo Miss Julia Dean, ON SEEING HER AS JULIET.OH, thou art wondrous fair! I did not dreamThus to behold the fancy of the great,Immortal poet's brain made palpableTo mortal vision. Mighty Shakspeare's self,Who from his mind of myriad glories wroughtThis creature of strange beauty, and of deepStrong love, might well be proud to see thee takeHer form, and to the bright ideal giveLife, grace, and beauty brighter than her own.Oh who would not weep gushing tears with thee,Thou lovely being with a heart of flame,When in the maddening burst of thy young grief,Thy own dear Romeo from thee torn, thy armsAre thrown out wildly in a frantic prayerFor his return! And when upon the earth,In passion's stormiest mood, thy form is flungIn utter, hopeless, crushing agony,The deep and mute upheavings of thy strongAnd frenzied soul wring drops of voiceless griefFrom hearts unused to tears. The mute appealOf those blue orbs, the marble fixednessOf those sweet features in the trance of grief,When thou art left by all thy heart holds dear;Thy face so radiant in its loveliness,Yet shadowed by the griefs that darkly lieUpon the broken altar of the heart;Thy music-cadences when in the strange,Deep poetry of passion, they are breathedFrom thy young lips--all touch the soul with powerMysterious and resistless. Lady bright,And beautiful, to thee belongs a highAnd glorious mission. The great heritageOf genius is thine own--the boon of Heaven.To the wild, airy things of poetry,Its spirit-visions, its ethereal dreams,Its mystic, fairy-like imaginings,Thou givest beauty and vitality,And bidd'st them move, and speak, and smile, and weep,Like beings of our earth, and they will liveFor ever in our glowing souls as thouDost image them. O lady dear, the pureAnd gentle beauty of thy sweet young faceHas wakened thoughts and feelings in my soul,That will not, cannot perish but with life.Thy pure white brow, serene and beautiful,And calm as infant sleep; thy floating wealthOf fleecy, golden hair; thy liquid eyes,Through which thy thoughts glow ever, as the starsShine through the soft, blue glories of the sky;The eloquent rich blood that proudly mountsUp to thy throbbing temples, and impartsIts tinge to "the white wonder" of thy brow;Thy ripe red lips, where honeyed sweetness seemsTo hang; the chiselled outline of thy lightAnd undulating form, and, most of all,The spirit of a genius that beams outFrom every lineament, like prisoned flameShining through some bright alabaster vase--These, these are deeply imaged in my heart,A picture holy, beautiful and dear,That will not pass away with earth, but liveImmortally within my soul in heaven,A portion of that heaven's own purityAnd angel beauty. Lovely lady, thouWilt leave us soon perchance for distant climes,To wake the loud applause of stranger lips,And win a deathless garland for thy brow,And I may see thee never more. Oh takeWith thee the blessings of a heart, that thouHast ofttimes thrilled to ecstasy and tears.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithStarlight Musings.THE gentle spirit of the twilight nowHas shut his rosy wings, and I have comeOut in the sad, sweet starlight, to communeWith olden visions, soft and beautiful,Yet fading in my soul. Ye lovely stars!Bright, holy watchers of the glorious sky!Ye gave to me in eves of other yearsYour gentle sympathy--Oh grant it still,For now 'tis dearer to the orphan's heart,Than when in childhood's happy years she gazedEnchanted on your lovely light, and dreamedHad she but wings, that she could rise and graspYour shining forms and twine them round her brow,A band of glorious jewels. Now she comesWiser, but oh, less happy, bent in soulAnd crushed in hope, to weep her griefs awayBeneath your pitying beams. Her proud soul chafesAnd struggles in its earthly pilgrimage;Her weary feet and panting heart would restTo-night, and she would muse on dear old joysThat lent their glow, their spirit-thrilling dreams,Their wild, ideal spell of witchery,To years that cannot come again, and scenesShe never can see more. Nay, now her heartAgain grows young and gentle, as it thrillsDelightedly beneath your beautifulAnd holy spell, as ocean thrills and heavesTo the young moon in heaven. Again she dreams,And years and sorrows vanish from her life,And leave her in her pure and innocentAnd joyous childhood. Once again she treadsWhere roses bloom, and no dark serpent coilsBeneath their leaves; again she looks abroadO'er nature, with a soul that leaps to blendWith every scene and sound of love; againShe hears the well-remembered tones that madeThe music of her life, ere yet she knewThat Death was in the world; and oh, againTears, gentle tears, the chastened spirit's dew,Are overflowing from a heart whose depthsShe thought were turned to dust. And now one star,One soft, bright star, beams on her eye and soul,On which she used to gaze in ecstasyWith him, the idol of her heart, when theySat hand in hand on glorious eves like this,In deep and voiceless love, their souls too fullOf wild and beautiful and burning dreamsFor human utterance. Ah, little dreamedTheir hearts, as on their favorite star they gazed,That soon its beams would shine alone for her,And that her eyes would strain through gushing tearsTo search its glittering orb, and see if 'twereHis spirit's dwelling-place. Ye glorious stars!Ye shone like blessed spirits of the skyOn Eden's groves and fountains, ere the pallOf sin had fallen there; ye shone uponA dark, and wild, and shoreless world of waves,A lone and billowy desert, when the arkThat held all mortal breath was drifting o'erThe mountain tops; ye shone on Sinai's tallAnd awful summit, when a mortal manWas talking face to face with God; ye shoneOn Calvary's sacred height, while yet the bloodThat flowed to wash the human race from guiltWas red upon the tree; ye shone on allThe prophets and the patriarchs of old,And saw their tears as forth they stole and weptIn agony beneath your silent light;Ye shone upon the meek and reverend headsOf those who went forth in the strength of God,To bear His message to a fallen world,And on the dark brows and the gleaming steelOf the fierce hosts that spread their prophet's creedAbroad by sword and wasting flame; ye shoneOn Egypt's plains ere yet the pyramidsLifted their bald and solemn heads to heaven;Ye shone on Tadmor, Nineveh, and Rome,Their glories and their ruins; ye have shoneUpon the living forms and on the gravesOf the departed generations; yeHave shone on all that's been on earth, and nowYe shine on all that is. Oh, in your beamsThere is a world of bright and awful lore,A deep spell woven of the centuries,And though we scarce may read the mystic scroll,It shines upon our spirit with a pure,And deep, and mighty power, and charms awayCare, sin, and woe, and makes us strong to bearThe strifes of mortal being. BeautifulAnd holy stars! ye seem in Paradise;Ay, when your beams are resting on our brows,We feel that we are bathed in what has beenA part of Heaven itself. We know that yeAre God's own thoughts writ by His mighty hand,And that our winged souls, by mounting upFrom earth and mingling with your flames, may catchA portion of your living glory. We,Chained darkly to the dust, may never listWith mortal ear the lofty symphonyThat ye are ever pealing in your swiftAnd radiant sweep through the eternal space;Yet, with our listening spirits we can hearIts echoes sounding nightly o'er the earth,The solemn music of eternity.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Deserted.WHY didst thou leave me thus? Had memoryNo chain to bind thee to me, lone and wreckedIn spirit as I am? Was there no spellOf power in my deep, yearning love to stirThe sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keepMy image trembling there? Is there no charmIn strong and high devotion such as mine,To win thee to my side once more? Must IBe cast for ever off for brighter formsAnd gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still.Love will not, cannot perish in my heart--'Twill linger there for ever. Even nowIn our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hourOf passion's unforgotten tryst, I hushThe raging tumult of my soul, and stillThe fierce strife in my lonely breast where prideIs fiercely struggling for control. Each hueOf purple, gold and crimson that flits o'erThe western sky, recalls some by-gone joy,That we have shared together, and my soulIs love's and memory's. As here I sitIn loneliness, the thought comes o'er my heart,How side by side in moonlight eves, while softThe rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stoodBeside that clear and gently-murmuring fountO'erhung with wild and blooming vines, and feltThe spirit of a holy love bedewOur hearts' own budding blossoms. There I drankThe wild, o'ermastering tide of eloquenceThat flowed from thy o'erwrought and burning soul.There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowersTo shine amid my dark brown locks, and nowBeside me lies a bud, the little budThou gav'st me in the glad, bright Summer-time,Telling me 'twas the emblem of a hopeThat soon would burst to glorious life withinOur spirits' garden. The poor fragile budIs now all pale and withered, and the hopeIs faded in my lonely breast, and castFor ever forth from thine. They tell me, too,My brow and cheek are very pale--Alas!There is no more a spirit-fire withinTo light it with the olden glow. Life's dreamsAnd visions all have died within my soul,And I am sad, and lone, and desolate;And yet at times, when I behold thee near,A something like the dear old feeling stirsWithin my breast, and wakens from the tombOf withered memories one pale, pale rose,To bloom a moment there, and cast aroundIts sweet and gentle fragrance, but anonIt vanishes away, as if it wereA mockery, the spectre of a flower.I quell my struggling sighs, and wear a smile;But ah! that smile, more eloquent than sighs,Tells of a broken heart. 'Tis said that thouDost ever shine the gayest 'mid the gay,That loudest rings thy laugh in festive halls,That in the dance, with lips all wreathed in smiles,Thou whisperest love's delicious flatteries;And if my name is spoken, a light sneerIs all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I knowBeneath thy hollow mask of recklessness,Thy conscious heart still beats as true to meAs in the happy eves long past. Ah! once,In night's still hour, when I went forth to weepBeneath our favorite tree, whose giant armsSeemed stretched out to protect the lonely girl,I marked a figure stealing thence away,And my poor heart beat quick; for oh! I saw,Despite the closely muffled cloak, 'twas thou.Then, then I knew that thou in secrecyHadst sought that spot, like me, to muse and weepO'er blighted memories. Thou art, like me,In heart a mourner. In thy solitude,When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighsConvulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fallLike burning rain. Oh! 'twas thy hand that dealtThe blow to both our hearts. I well could bearMy own fierce sufferings, but thus to feelThat thou, in all thy manhood's glorious strength,Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony,Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weightOf death. I see thee in my tortured dreams,And ever with a smile upon thy lip,But a keen arrow quivering deep withinThy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may'st wedAnother; but beside the altar darkMy mournful form will stand, and when thou seestThe wreath of orange blossoms on her brow,Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiledWildly around thine own. I'm dying now;Life's sands are falling fast, the silver cordIs loosed and broken, and the golden bowlIs shattered at the fount. My sun has set,And dismal clouds hang o'er me; but afarI see the glorious realm of Paradise,And by its cooling fountains, and beneathIts holy shades of palm, my soul will washAway its earthly stains, and learn to dreamOf heavenly joys. Farewell! despite thy coldDesertion, I will leave my angel home,Each gentle eve, at our own hour of tryst,To hold my vigils o'er thy pilgrimage,And with my spirit-pinion I will fanThy aching brow, and by a holy spell,That I may learn in Heaven, will charm awayAll evil thoughts and passions from thy breast,And calm the raging tumult of thy soul.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThou Lovest Me No More.THOU lovest me no more. It needs not wordsTo tell me thou art altered now. Alas!I mark it well in thy cold, studied tone.Oh would affection seek its warmth to hideIn tones whose chilling, freezing cadencesFall on the soul like Alpine drops? 'Tis trueThou still dost say that I am dear; thy lipStill murmurs all love's practised flatteries,But thy stern glance of cold and withering prideTurns all the hollow mockeries of thy wordsTo bitter, bitter ashes on my heart.I utter no reproaches. Slowly nowAnd silently and mournfully I opeMy spirit's rosy-gate, and drive from thenceEach dear and starwinged hope that I have lovedThrough long, long years to cherish. Never more,--Oh never more, thou false one, may I bearIn vernal bower or in the gilded hall,A free, and light, and happy heart. Yet IShall mingle still amid the wild and gay,My laugh will echo loudest in the dinOf mirth and joyousness, and none may knowThe soul's deep bitterness, the quivering hopesCrushed on the spirit's hearth. My smiles will beAs bright as they have been, and none may see,That, cold and vacant like the moon's pale beamsUpon a ruined temple, they but lightThe gloom and shadow that keep watch below.Mine still will be the gay and merry jest,The keen reply, the free and buoyant tread,And none may ever rend the veil, and seeWhat darkly lies beneath. But think thou not,Proud and perfidious one, my strong, stern prideShall fail me in my solitude. Ah no,The unrelenting tear may never breakForth from its deep and hidden front. The spellOf passion still is on me, but disdainHeeds not the murmuring tone of love's wild chant,That rises like the low voice of the windWandering at midnight o'er the mouldering chordsOf a neglected harp. For ever crushedAnd broken be the rosy memoriesThat in their fairy beauty floated erstThrough my love-lighted soul. Thy ring is cold,It seems to bind my finger with a spellOf ice, for its bright circle is not nowThe emblem of unending truth and trust.I'm gazing on thy picture, but I seeNo smile of sweet endearment on these lips,No high devotion on this pale, stern brow,No gleam of love-light beaming in these eyesOf midnight fire--nay even here is change.I send thee back thy vain and worthless gifts--Ah, proud one, would that I could give thee backThy bosom's truth. I said I would not weepAgain, but drops of mingled tears and bloodFrom the recesses of a breaking heartAre gushing, and the shower has brought relief;For oh! I feel that now the awful gloomWhich filled my bosom with its cloudy weight,Is broken and dispersed. Within its deepDark mists the genius of the tempest stoodLike a dread night-mare of the soul, and heldMy spirit's elements in thrall, but nowThe loosened zephyrs wander as they list,The deep, strong spell that bound them is dissolved,And lo! the twilight soft comes stealing onWith its one star, the star of memory,Pale, pale, but very beautiful. I countThe drops that, one by one, fall on my heart,Turning its woman's softness into stone;Yet, to that heart, all worn and changed, thou stillArt dear, and ever wilt be dear. Some thoughtsOf thee, though all my future years will beLike by-gone music lingering in my soul,A sweet bird-carol heard in childhood's years,Or like the lone funereal lamp that burnsWithin the dark and solitary depthsOf Eastern tombs, forever shining onWhere all around is death and dull decay.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithMy Birth-Day.STRANGE feelings wildly throng around my heartOn this my natal day. They seem to comeLike mournful spirits from the distant past,And from the dim, sad future. Down, far downInto my soul I gaze, and memory,The wizard, that bears sway in that lone realm,Calls perished joys and hopes from out their graves,And bids them glow, and live, and breathe, and ISeem once again a happy child amidThe scenes of other days, with long-lost friendsClasping my hand, or sitting at my side,And murmuring in my ear their gentle tonesOf melody and love. My natal day!In other, happier years, I used to hailIts advent with a thrill of joy and pride,For then I deemed it but an added linkTo a young life that would for ever wearThe lovely rose-tints of the morning heavensThat hung serene and beautiful above,Unbroken by a storm-cloud; but to-dayA sigh, a tear, is in my soul to thinkWave after wave of my existence thusBreaks on the shore of old Eternity,And sinks to silence and to nothingness.Here in my spirit's awful solitudeI muse upon the thousand hopes that rushedImpatient to life's banquet, and expiredIn tasting of the poison-cup they thoughtA boon the gods might crave. My birth-day! YearsHave flown and left me a lone mourner. OneBy one I've seen the deeply, dearly loved,The friends and guardians of my childhood, fadeAnd wither like the leaves when Autumn setsHis many-tinted signet on the woods.Yet I, whose life in this drear month began,Still linger darkly, sadly here to weepFor vanished stars and lovely blighted flowersThat shed upon my life, in brighter years,Their lustre and their perfume. But with hopesAll crushed, and eyes bathed in the heart's best dew,I lift my gaze above the earth, and readUpon the far sky's blue and starry scroll,A beautiful and holy promise. GodWatches and shields the lonely orphan here;Ay, He who kindly tempers the cold windTo the shorn lamb, will temper life's fierce stormsTo her who calls upon His sacred nameIn deep and fervent prayer. My natal day!'Tis slowly melting in the twilight now,And soon its tints along the western skyThat seem a rose-wreath on the brow of death,Will pass away. My natal day, farewell!Oh may'st thou, if thy light shall ever comeTo me again on earth, behold the hopes,That droop and fold within my lonely soulTheir broken pinions now, soar proudly up,And revel, 'mid the glories of the sky.LOUISVILLE KY.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Student.ALONE he sat. His broad and lofty browWas bent upon his thin, pale hand; his locksOf jet hung o'er it with a darkened shade;His black and glistening eye gleamed with some deepAnd sad and earnest thought; his cheek was white--White as the Parian stone; his quivering lipWas blanched to Death's own hue; and the blue veinsThat branched along his temples seemed to throbWith the strong spirit's fever. All alone,In the dim twilight's calm and solemn hour,He sat and mused upon his far-off home,His happy childhood's faded years, and allThe beauty and the glory that had passedWith them for evermore. He sadly thoughtOf his sweet sister, with her golden hairStreaming and waving on the morning wind--His bold young brother sporting at his side,With a free shout, as joyous as the soundOf bright, glad waters, leaping to the sheenOf early Spring--his mother's gentle kiss,Her sad, sweet smile, her holy words of love--His gray-haired father's fervent blessing, breathedWith quivering lip, at the last parting hour,When his own tears fell like the Summer rain--And her, the dearer still, whose soft, blue eye,Through dark and gloomy years, had been to himThe day-star of his being. Ay, he thoughtOf these, all sleeping in the church-yard now,And 'mid his mournful musings he forgotThe world, his many triumphs, and his wildAnd maddening love of fame, that in the dimAnd distant future might make melody,Dear melody for his now lonely ear;And then he bowed his strong and lofty heart,And, 'mid his sad and holy memories, weptHis stern, dark pride away. From his deep trance--His long, deep trance of memory, love and grief--He started up, and clenching his pale handsIn strong resolve, he raised his eyes to Heaven,And moved his thin and bloodless lips, and vowedTo win a name a nation should adore--To write it on the broad and glorious scrollOf living greatness. Then, as o'er his heartThe vision stole with bright and burning power,That would not be controlled, he smiled, and quelledThe rushing tide of passion's flood, and pressedThe one bright picture to his breast--the dear,Prized picture of his future glory. HighAmong the foremost of his country's sonsThat student stands. The wild and stormy soulsOf multitudes bow to his master-will,Even as the sheaves the dreaming patriarch sawBow to the master sheaf. Each lightning flashOf his sublime and glorious intellectIs followed by the long, loud thunder-pealOf popular acclaim. Lone and bereftIn heart, he sways a mighty people's hearts,And moves majestic in his pride of place,Lord of the realm's applause. Ah, little knowThe idolizing world the bitter throesThat rend his soul, the weary woe he bearsWithout a word or sign. His power and fameAre all they know or seek to know. No eyeSave God's may see him in his solitude,When, 'mid the holy stillness of the night,He turns from all life's glittering pomp away,And weeps and sobs, ay, like a very child.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithIn Memory of Mrs. Adeline K. O'Brien, ON VISTING HER HOUSE AFTER HER DEATH.SHE is not here! Alas, she is not here!Yet all still breathes and speaks of her. Her sweetAnd living presence is in every thing.The very breeze, deep-laden with the soft,Rich perfume of her own, her much-loved flowers,Seems murmuring with a sigh her cherished name.Through the lone chambers of her darkened homeI wander oft, and pine to greet once moreHer beauteous form now mingling with the dust.The shadow of deep gloom hath settled roundThe holy hearth where joy was wont to ring.The lovely Spring-time is again on earth,Kissing the thousand wild-flowers into bloomAnd fairy life; upon the rosy galeThe wild-bird's song is floating; a bright robeIs o'er the wooded hills; and from the soft,Gree bosom of the earth, the young buds burst,As springs the soul immortal from the tombOf darkness and of shadow; but the flowersLook sad, a hue of sorrow seems to dimTheir beauty's glow, as if they missed her sweetAnd gentle ministry, and wept bright tearsOf dew for their dear sister-spirit dead;The wild-bird's music seems a wail of griefBreathed for the loved and lost; the blessed beamHas lost its smile, as if it sought in vainFor her fair angel-brow, on which to shedIts answering lustre. All is lone and drear--I gaze upon her partner's grief-bow'd form,And mark the deepened silver of his locks,And my heart checks its selfish sighs. Her child,Her cherub-child, is sporting in the bloomOf infancy, but yet her very mirthSeems strangely sad, as if her spirit feltThat Death's stern hand had crushed her parent stem,And thrown her as a loosened bud to floatUpon the dark and stormy waves of time,A thing of lone and blighted life. Dear friend,Friend of my childhood's bright and happy years,Where dwells thy spirit now? I feel its powerIn this calm twilight air; I catch thy toneIn the sweet cadence of this evening gale;I see the holy beauty of thy faceIn the strange beauty of yon sunset cloud;I feel thy breath upon my cheek, as thoughThy spirit in its angel-mission o'erThe darkened earth, stooped from its glorious flightTo whisper hope and comfort to my bruisedAnd broken spirit. Can it be? Ah yes,O'er this lone spot thy bright and guardian wingsAre hovering, and at night thy angel-armsEnfold again the loved of earth, and guardFrom coming ills the children of thy heart.It must be so, for oh, I know that thisBlest presence is thine own. Thy spirit glidesAround me at the morning, noon, and eve,And at the solemn midnight, and I thankThy God and mine, that I am not alone.BEDFORD, APRIL 12th, 1851.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithClose of the Year.AN hour ago the music at the wood,And the low chant of waves came o'er the glade,But now no murmur breaks the solitude,And a stern weight on Nature's pulse seems laid.Yon moon has seen the death of countless yearsFrom her blue air-halls in the midnight sky,And lo! her dim sad eye looks down through tearsUpon the earth to see another die.Silent and beautiful, she sits alone,The princess of the sky, and in her paleSweet light a spell of mournful love seems thrownUpon the plain, the forest, and the vale:It is the old year's death-hour, but no sobComes on the night-air from his dying breast;Serene, and calm, and still, without one throbOf agony he passes to his rest.Yet tears are in our hearts and in our eyes,Mid the strange stillness of this solemn night,While here we sit and muse upon the tiesThe dying year has severed in his flight;Ay, as his last breath on the air is flung,Our hearts are heavy and our eyes are dimWith thinking of the woes that with him sprungTo life--alas; they cannot die with him.Like the cold shadow of a demon's plume,A chilling darkness that will not departLies on our thoughts, and casts its sullen gloomAround the dearest idols of the heart;We learn in youth the stern and bitter loreThat comes of ruined hopes and darkened dreams,And Nature has no magic to restoreThe glory of the spirit's shadowed gleams.Scattered and broken on life's desert wide,The soul's best gems, its brightest treasures shine,And memories of joy, and love, and prideLie dim upon the bosom's shattered shrine:We gaze into the future, but a shadeIs on its visions, they are not so blestAnd beautiful as those the year has laidWithin the heart's deep sepulchre to rest.The music of our being's rushing streamIs growing sad and sadder day by day,And life is but a troubled fever-dreamThat soon must vanish from our souls away;But when this wild and tearful dream is past,The mounting spirits of the pure will roveAbove the cloud, the whirlwind, and the blast,In the bright Eden of immortal love.Farewell, old year! while sorrow dims our eyes,We bless thee for the lessons thou hast given;Though thou hast filled earth's atmosphere with sighs,We trust that thou hast brought us nearer heaven:Some stars that gleam along thy shadowy trackWill shine upon our hearts with holy power,And oft our pilgrim-spirits will come backTo muse and weep o'er this thy dying hour.Old Year, farewell, the myriad flowers that thouHast blighted, will again in beauty bloom,And breathing millions thou hast caused to bowIn death, will rise in triumph from the tomb.Not thus, old year, with thee. Thy life, now fled,No power of God or Nature will restore;The graves of years may not give up their dead,And thou wilt live, oh never, nevermore.Farewell, for ever fare thee well, old year!The gentle angel, missioned at thy birthTo keep life's records through thy sojourn here,Has poised his shining wing and left the earth;Oh, may the words of love and mercy fall,Heaven's own blest music, on each erring soul,When, on His burning throne, the Judge of allShall to our eyes unfold the awful scroll!Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithTo My Georgie.MY cousin, I am gazing on thee now,And well I mark, with soul of joy and pride,The changing beauty of thy glorious face.With rapture swelling in my heart of loveI gaze upon thy young and joyous cheek,Where roses pure reveal their richest dyes,And shed their sweetest perfume--thy soft eye,Thy soft, meek eye of mild and tender blue,Trembling beneath its dark and fringy lash,And glowing with the spirit-dreams that seemReflected from its calm, mysterious depths,Like gems from ocean-caves--thy lofty browO'er which the blue veins stray like tranquil streams,Along a lovely plain--thy temples pale,Where thy brown wealth of waving tresses floatsIn beautiful luxuriance--thy lipsOf richest coral, where a thousand smilesAppear and flee in frolic chase, like birdsAround a sleeping lake at morning-tide--I gaze on these, sweet cousin, and in allI see a spirit of deep purity;A living, breathing, glowing soul of deepAnd holy purity, from which dark ViceAnd Sin would cower and fly, rebuked and quelledAs by Religion's power. My cousin dear,Thou art a very dream of loveliness,And beauty is thy purity. Thou artA creature whose high soul is troubled notWith the temptations of a world of sin.Thy gentle spirit here hath kept undimmedThe angel-charm on which our God in heavenSet His own signet of unchanging truth.I love thee, and I reverence thy highAnd holy strength of purpose. Gentleness,And loftiness, and virtue are in allThy feelings, and they stamp thy mortal lifeWith an immortal beauty. Cousin dear,As here I fix my tearful eyes on thee,And hear thy tones of pure and gentle love,My spirit seems to see an angel's form,And hear the cadence of an angel's voice.Thou art young, pure, and sweet--life beckons theeTo a bright destiny. Thy loving friendsAre ever, ever round thee, making earthAll that thy true and gentle heart could craveIn its wild fairy visions. There are thoseFor ever round thy glowing path, who flingA brightness on thy being, and to whomThy own sweet life is as the radiant beamAnd the refreshing dew-drop to the parchedAnd desert earth. Ay, thou art blest with allThat makes life beautiful, with not one cloudTo dim thy heaven. Thus may it ever be,Dear friend, with thee. May no dark sorrows e'erCome o'er thy tranquil life, like those that frownSo dark o'er my sad fate. Oh I would prayThe Power who sends to me a night of griefAnd storm of bitter tears, to give to theeThe bright sky where no thunder-cloud e'er breaksThe holy blue; to give thee a bright path,Where no foul serpents coil to blight and marThe angels' shining footsteps, and no thornsMingle with love's pure garlands. Cousin sweet,May peace, and joy, and hope be thine on earth;May these e'er be thy blessed ministers,Thy guardian-spirits here, and may they crownThy beaming brow in God's own Paradise,With their bright wreath of immortality.OHIO RIVER, JUNE 23.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithIn Memory of my Father.DEAR father mine, thy grave is far away--Soft, sunny skies, bend warm and lovinglyAbove thy dreamless slumber, and the wavesOf a far southern stream sweep by, and bearIn their low tones a message and a sighFrom thy unhappy child. My father dear,These eyes have never gazed upon thy grave,These hands have never taught the sweet Spring-roseTo bloom on that neglected spot; but ah,Within my soul there is a holy flower,A flower perennial, watered with my tears,And kissed to bloom by the sweet beam of love--Father, that flower is memory of thee.Years, weary, anxious years have passed o'er earth,And shadowed in their course young, loving hearts,Since that bright morning when we saw thee goForth in the beauty of thy glorious prime,Bearing to thy far southern home a fairAnd gentle bride. Oh, father, thou didst kissThy little prattler with a beaming smile,And give her to thy mother's holy care;But even then I heard a faint, low sigh,Which sadly fell upon my ear and heart,The omen of a coming agony. They tell me that a fair, young stranger girl,Who knew thee not, has placed a sweet wildroseTo shed its gentle fragrance o'er thy dust.Her pitying heart was deeply touched to lookOn thy neglected sleep, and, with the pureSweet instinct of a daughter, she placed flowersUpon thy lonely grave. My deep heart breathesA blessing upon hers. Oh may no griefsE'er fall upon her life like those which restSo dark on mine. Oh father, my poor heartIs lone and sad to-night. In agony'Tis calling to thee in thy distant grave.I am an orphan lone, and, when my browIs fevered and my heart oppressed, I fainWould fly to thee; I would pour out my griefBeside thy mouldering ashes; I would weepBeside the cold grave-stone, and on the earOf Death would breathe a stricken daughter's woe.My spirit calls to thine--oh come to meIn this lone hour, and let me know once moreA father's holy love. Ah, now a strangeMysterious thrill comes o'er my soul; I feelA spirit's presence--father, is it thine!Yes, it is thine, I see thee, and through allThe trembling fibres of my frame I feelThat hallowed kiss. Stay, blessed father, stay,And leave me never more alone on thisCold desert of the earth. If thou must go,Dear father, fold thy angel-wings aroundThy child, and bear her to thy far blue home,To rest for ever with our God and thee.BEDFORD, KY.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Lone One at the Old Trysting-Place.IT is the twilight hour, and o'er the earthThe softening spells of evening shadows steal.All here is stillness now, and I have comeTo look once more upon this spot, and holdCommunion with the unforgotten past.My heart, all sad and lonely, here would breatheThe silent music that clings round its chords.The perfume from the incense-breathing meadsSteals o'er my spirit, like the fragrance caughtFrom many a broken, pale, and withered flowerOf faded memory. The evening starStill shines above as bright as when it beamed,In eve's long past, a watchfire in the heavens,To guide his steps to me Ah, here where onceMy young heart know life's deepest blessings, IWould weep away that heart's remaining youth.Here where 'twas soft and gentle, it should nowLearn to be strong. Years, with their joys and griefs,Have passed away and left this sacred spotUnchanged. The little rustic seat where weErst whiled away the dear and blissful hoursWith love's low-murmured melodies, is stillAs memory oft has pictured it. AgainMy heart forgets its shadows and its gloom,The tones of love thrill through its depths, and onThe breeze the cadence of his words is borne;Again my hand within his own is pressed,To his my eyes are turned and drink againThe bliss of that dear smile. Within my soulSo dark and drear, a light is breaking now,'Tis memory's holy star-gleam, 'tis a lightFrom out the happy past. Deep in my heartThere blooms a single flower, a lonely flowerOr faded recollection, the "last rose"Of joy's departed Summer, a sweet bloomWhose sad pale beauty lingers mournfullyUpon life's darkened waste--it is the bloomOf dear remembered love, and now my heart,My weary heart, finds rapture in this spotOf holy tryst. But, lo! the roseate tintsHave slowly faded from the Western sky,The mystic lamps of Heaven shine far above,And the pale moonbeams slumber with a wanMysterious light upon this blessed scene.The falling dews are heavy on my hair,Whilst tears, delicious tears, are welling upFrom my heart's shadowed fount. I am aloneWith God and with His holy messengersThat guard this sacred place. A soft low prayerIs gently stirring all my heart's young leaves,And breathing from my lips. Oh I would askFor him a charmed existence. I would askThat on my life the shadows lengtheningIn their decline might rest, so he be sparedA single sorrow. Let, the blessed beamShine on him, and the shadow hang o'er me.My life within the "vale of shadows" e'erMust lie, but oh may his be on the bright,Sun-lighted mount, and from my lowly home,With outstretched arms and yearning heart, I'll liftMy soul to pierce the cloud-gloom, and to gazeWith love and tears on him. Sweet spot, farewell!Take these, my breaking heart's wild, burning tearsAs its deep blessing. Take my stifled sobsAs tokens of my parting agony.The holy light of love that ever burnsWithin my soul of memory's sacred shrine,Has gathered brightness and intensityFrom this lone eve's communion. Dearest spot,Farewell! farewell! I may not see thee more.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithLines to Miss ------- ON HER MARRIAGE.FAIR lady, new and holy ties are thine,The dearest ties e'er twined by earth or heaven,And oh may every blessing on thee shine,That to a mortal spirit can be given.Thou art, indeed, most beautiful and fair,No shadow rests upon thy queenly brow,And I will pray that never grief or care,May dim the life, so pure and happy now.Thou goest from thy dear old parent home,The home of peace, of happiness and love,Yet still 'twill be, where'er thy feet may roam,An ark of refuge for the wandering dove.Within another's heart thy heart of pride,Its sweetest bliss, its dearest life has found,And may thy deep devotion, gentle bride,Forever be with richest garlands crowned.My spirit fain would weave a mystic spell,To bless thy lofty Spirit, it would pray,That all the richest joys, that ever fell,From heaven to earth, may fall around thy way.'Twould pray that if the storm thy skies shall shroud,And the dear light of sun and stars depart,The holy beams that glow beyond the cloud,May shine serenely on thy mounting heart.Thy face hath wakened in my heart a highBright dream of beauty to my spirit dear,And oh! may I behold thee in the sky,As beautiful as I behold thee here.KENTUCKY, DEC. 3d.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithTo ---------------.I DO not love thee, yet why does thy calmSweet smile forever haunt my dreams, and whyDo thy dark eyes beam gloriously on mineLike bright stars from the midnight heaven of sleep?No tone of sweetest music ever fallsUpon my ear at gentle eve but breathesThe music of thy voice; no silver waveE'er murmurs at my feet but seems to glassThy face and form; no lovely blossom springsBeside my lonely pathway but exhalesThe perfume of thy breath. When thou art near,My thrilling spirit seems a universeOf happiness and beauty. Blessed dreamsOf airy loveliness float through my soul;A chastened splendor rests upon my life,As a soft pillar of the moonlight restsUpon the deep; and a soft glory comesFrom thy sweet presence o'er my heart, to charmMy senses into worship. On thy browI read the might of lofty intellect,And I have listened with a panting heartTo thy high words of music and of pride,And bowed my soul in homage to thy power,Thou glorious son of genius. Every starThat trembles in the blue empyrean, seemsA torch to light thy spirit's sweeping trackThrough Heaven's serene abyss; and holy nightSeems but a stole of solemn hue thrown roundThe radiance of thy soul. Thou art afar,I know not where, but still the arches loneOf Memory's sacred temple are illumedBy the pure, blessed brilliancy they caughtFrom thy dear presence, and they echo yetThy voice's spirit-music, till the airGrows tremulous with joy. The wanderers o'erThe bright realms of the rosy Hesperus,Ne'er revelled in an atmosphere of blissLike that which thrills around me with the spellOf thy remembered cadences. And yetI love thee not. I only ask to lookWith thee upon the heavens that roll sereneAnd beautiful above; to sit and gazeOn the same stars thou gazest on, and sendMy soul to thine when slumber's midnight dewsHave fallen on thy blue-veined lids, and hushedThy heart to rest. Oh I would love to flit,The spirit of the zephyr, through thy dreams,Waking to beauty and to melodyThy fancy's wild and leaping waves; to glide,A star-beam, through thy softly-shadowed soul,Flinging a glory o'er thy sleeping world;To murmur like a voice from out the airWithin thy dreaming ear, and blend my thoughtsWith thy own thoughts of flame. Then thou wouldst feelMy kisses on thy lip, and my young heartPressed to thy throbbing bosom as I watchedO'er thy unguarded hours, but yet no spell,Flung on thy sweetly-troubled sleep, should hauntThy waking life with its remembered charm.Ha! what wild power is this that fills my soul,Holding thought, feeling, ay, my very life,In its resistless thrall? 'Tis strangely sweet,Yet there is madness in its influence,And with a trembling soul and frame I bowTo its mysterious mastery. Oh, unchainThy victim, strong, and beauteous spirit, takeThy magic fetter from my soul; unbindMy wing and leave me free, as I have been,To wander with the birds, the waves, the winds,The clouds, the stars, where'er I list, o'er earthAnd through the blue and boundless cope of Heaven.LOUISVILLE, KY., JANUARY 6, 1852.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithMy Mother.MY dear, lost mother, it is midnight now,The sky is dark and starless, and the earthSeems bound as with a spell of silence. AllAround is still and pulseless as the heartWhence life has fled for ever. At this hour,When in my listenings I can hear no sound,Save the low earnest voice of my own soulCalling in grief to Heaven, I would invokeThy spirit from its blessed home, to holdCommunion with thy child. My thought retainsNo vestige, mother, of thy form or face--Death took thee from me long ere memoryCould paint the image of thy lovelinessUpon my infant soul. Yet many friendsHave told me thou wast beautiful beyondThe poet's twilight imaging. They sayThat thy fair, blue-veined forehead nestled 'midThe dark brown clusters of thy tresses, likeThe spirit of sweet purity amongThe clouds of earthly gloom; that thy black eye,Calm, proud, and beautiful, beamed with the pureHigh visions of thy soul, as midnight wavesGleam with the flashing star-beams; that thy cheek,For ever living with the blended huesOf rose and lily, seemed to glow with moreThan earthly beauty; and that thy red lipsTook added witcheries from the beaming smiles,And from the tones of gentle melodyThat ever hung around them. Ay, I've heardFull oft of thy entrancing charms, and musedIn silence on them till my soul has sketchedA picture of surpassing loveliness,And fondly named it thee; and oh I feelI could for ever kneel and worship itIn wild excess of love. I do not knowThat e'er I heard thy voice, yet in my brainThere is a soft mysterious melodyFar sweeter than the sweetest sound of earth;And I have dreamed it is thy gentle toneBreathed in mine ear in early infancyAnd lingering faintly still. My mother dear,When the high mandate came that bade thee takeFarewell of this dark earth, and seek thy homeOf immortality beyond the stars,Oh did no feeling of regret ariseWithin thy pure and parting soul? Hadst thouNo torturing fears, sweet mother, for thy childWhom thou wast leaving in her helpless yearsAmid a world of sin? Hadst thou no dreadLest her young feet should wander from the pathsOf truth, when she should hear no voice of thineTo warn her of her perils? Mother, nowThat child is weary of life's pilgrimage,Her spirit is oppressed on this dark shoreOf time; the burden of existence fallsUpon a heart too weak and faint to bearIts cares and agonies; and oh, she longsTo come to thee, and weep away her griefsUpon thy sainted bosom. Be the first,Oh mother, be the first to catch the soundOf her young footsteps through the shadowy valeOf death, and clasp her in thy blessed armsIn thy own Eden. Mother; from thy homeAbove, look down in pity on thy child,Thy lonely orphan wanderer. Shelter herWith thy angelic wing in her sad stayUpon the earth; breathe strength from thy high soulInto her soul; oh speak to her in dreams,When sleep has rent her earthly fetters; tellHer spirit of the bright, the better land;And keep her heart in all its wanderings pureFrom the dark stains of this mortality.LOUISVILLE, OCT. 25.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithTo J. R. Barrick.OH poet, to my lone and swelling heartHow gently comes the message sent by thine;It speaks to me of all I know thou art,For thy high soul glows in each burning line.I ne'er have met thee on the earth, but thouHast wakened visions that will long remain,Shedding their holy brightness on my brow,And haunting with their glory heart and brain.Yes, poet, to my soul, as to thine own,The world is bright, and if dark grief awhileClouds the high visions of my spirit lone,I find no gloom in Nature's blessed smile.The flowers still blow as in my childhood's years,The sunset hangs as lovely, on the sky,And the dear moon wakes still the happy tearsHer pale face wakened in the years gone by.And earth is brighter still, that souls like thineAre sent by Heaven beneath the skies to giveTo cold realities a tinge divine,And make it a sweet luxury to live.Such spirits lend a deep ideal glowTo wave, to wildwood, rainbow, star and flower,Charming from human life the shades of woeBy the strong spell of their mysterious power.And thou hast stolen even from this dull,Cold heart of mine, one-half its weight of pain,And made existence almost beautifulBy the strange magic of thy heavenly strain.Lured by thy tones, my weeping spirit turnsFrom all earth's cares, its bitterness and strife,And, leaning on, thy noble spirit, learnsTo taste the glorious ecstasies of life.Oh, earth to thee must be a Paradise,Where birds are singing ever o'er thy head,Where silver fountains picture golden skies,And loveliest flowers spring up beneath thy tread.And there blest spirits, beautiful and bright,High angel-natures, love with thee to roamAt morn, at eve, and in the silent night,And talk with thee of thy immortal home.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Orphan.OH, wearily, most wearily through life,The orphan girl in bitter grief must go,Uncheered amid the dark and fearful strifeA cold world wages with the child of woe;No parent's voice to soothe with sweet controlThe burning tear-drops bursting from her soul.She's desolate on earth, and she must bearThe conflict of mortality alone;Nor in her keenest anguish must she dareTo heave a sigh, or breathe one sorrowing moan;For men may mock the sighs and groans that startFrom the recesses of a breaking heart!And when disease steals fiercely through her frame,And she is lying helpless, pale, and weak--When fever's wild and desolating flameIs burning on her brow and wasted cheek,None come to stand beside her couch and laveHer lip and forehead with the cooling wave.Yet, oh, there's One to whom she still may turn,One who hath power to soothe, to heal, to bless--The great All-Merciful, who will not spurnThe weeping orphan in her wretchedness;Yes, she may lift her earnest prayers on highTo Him who listens to the raven's cry.He hears her pleading tones of agony--He sees the tears her lifted eyes that fill,And the deep wounds that bled upon the treeAre for the lovely orphan bleeding still!He will be with her in her sore distress,A friend--a father to the fatherless.Then lift thy head, poor orphan, in thy grief,Turn from the world, and fix thy thoughts above--Thou hast a Father who can give relief,And love thee with a deep, immortal love!He will uphold thee on life's stormy sea,And make thee blessed in eternity.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithImpromptu. ON RECEIVING A MAGNOLIA FLOWER FROM THE BEAUTIFUL SALLIE W.I LOVE to look on thee, oh glorious flower,The brightest nursling of the beam and shower;The soft, rich perfumes round thy fairy heartTo soul and sense an ecstasy impart;And thy young leaves of snowy whiteness gleamWith the strange beauty of a wild sweet dream.There is a magic in thy leaves, bright flower,That thrills me with its deep and mystic power,And o'er the calm thoughts slumbering in my soul,Steals with a soft and beautiful control,The glowing visions of my life to blessWith a deep spell of joy and loveliness.Oh bright magnolia, thou hast ever stoodThe queen of all the floral sisterhood,And she, thy giver, in her pride of place,Is crowned the queen of beauty, love, and grace;Ay, what thou art within the garden-bowersIs she, thy giver, among human flowers.Yet she is far more beautiful than thou,Thy leaves are not so white as her white brow;'Twere vain within thy perfumed depths to seekSuch tints as live upon her heavenly cheek;And the dear witcheries of her blue eye glowMore lovely than thy cup of spotless snow.In thy sweet incense-breath, there is no spellLike those that round her presence ever dwell;Thy gentle beauty is a thing to keepFor ever in the spirit pure and deep;But she is God's own loveliest blossom, givenTo tell us of the garden-bowers of Heaven.Oh, thou and she were both sent here to blessThe earth with beauty, light, and loveliness;And it was well thy petals should expand,Beneath the influence of her fostering hand,For now thy leaves dear thoughts of her awake,And thou art lovelier for her lovely sake.I look on thee, and blessed thoughts of herWithin the depths of my sad spirit stir;I've gazed on her as now I gaze on thee,Till my full soul gushed o'er with ecstasy,And her wild beauty has become a partFor ever of my burning brain and heart.Ah, dearest blossom, as with sorrowing eyeI watch thee fade, and feel thou soon must die,I weep for thee, but still 'tis joy to knowThat her pure soul will keep its heavenly glow,Passing at length to yon blue sky afar,The brightest flower, changed to the brightest star.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithLife."OH,1ife, is very, very beautifulTo my young heart. No clouds are on its sky,Save those the rainbow crowns; no waters sweepBeneath, save those that give the sky's soft blueBack from their tranquil bosoms; and no windsFly o'er the fresh green earth, save those that comeTo bear sweet incense on their dewy wings,To fan my glowing temples, and to liftThe light curl from my cheek. The many starsShine like rich blessings on me; countless flowers,With all their soft blue eyes, look love to mine;And myriad red and golden fruits hang low,And seem to woo my hand to pluck them. LifeTo me is all my heart has ever dreamedOf Eden land; it is a blooming bower,And I its merriest, happiest singing-bird.They tell us of a brighter, better clime,Beyond the star-lit azure, but I fainWould live for ever on this earth." Thus sangAt morn a wild and joyous-hearted girl,Upon a flowery lea. Her loosened hatWas swinging on her shoulders; her white handStrayed 'mid the sunny ringlets of her hair;Her blue eyes glistened with her happy dreams;And sweet smiles played, like honey bees, aroundHer parted cherry lips. Young roses layUpon her budding bosom; and glad thoughtsWere springing in her heart-sweet spirit-flowers,More fresh, more bright, more beautiful, that thoseThat bloomed upon her breast. Old Time moved on,Smiling upon the gay and lovely girl,And bearing for her, on his gentle plumes,All she could ask or crave. A few brief years,And Time's sweet smile was changed to frowns. He crushedThe dewy roses on that young girl's breast,And in her heart. The waving of his wingWaked a chill blast, from which she shrank away,Looking in vain for refuge. One by one,The friends and guardians of her earlier yearsFell at her side; and one by one their gravesWere watered with her bitter tears. She feltThat she was all alone, a wandererUpon the desert of the world. Her voice,So often answered in her happier hoursBy tones of love and friendship, now came back,But with a wailing echo to her sadAnd straining ear. All bowed in soul, she pinedIn deep and utter solitude. Her hair,That erst had wantoned on each passing galeSo bright and free, was plainly gathered o'erHer pale and stricken brow. Her eye, that onceHad danced so wildly to the melodyOf her own soul's sweet fancies, looked through tears.Yet sparkled with the strange mysterious lightThat tells of coming death. A deep-drawn sigh,More dismal than the sobbing of the windThrough the lone ruins of an ancient tomb,Told that her heart was broken. And as thereShe bowed her forehead low upon her hand,Her anguish thus found utterance. "What is life?Oh, what is life? A sigh, a tear, a frown,A shadow and a mockery! The light clouds,That moved so sweetly o'er my morning sky,Have darkened to a tempest; the bright wavesThat caught the morning and the evening beam,Wear midnight's sable hue, and break and roarIn yeasty wrath around me; and the windsThat used to linger on my floating curls,And with their dew-lips kiss my rosy cheeks,Have turned to winter blasts, and fiercely sweepCold, cold and bitter o'er me. Not a flowerBlooms in my cheerless pathway; not a birdSings in my lonely ear; not one dear voiceCalls to me in my grief; and not one starShines on this wide and awful waste. My lifeIs very, very desolate. O God!Thou stay and helper of the weary heart!To Thee I kneel in agony, and prayThat Thou wilt take me from this dreary worldTo rest for ever in Thy smile of love."Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Young Mother. AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO MRS. L. A. W., OF LITTLE ROCK.OH how serenely soft that pale high brow,O'er which her clustering tresses stray, her eye,Dissolving in its sweet blue tenderness,As from its depths a mother's holy loveIs gleaming like the light of heaven, her lipsJust parted as the low and earnest prayerOf angel purity dies soft awayIn wild, sweet music. O'er her infant nowIn slumber "lightly bound," her gentle formIs bending low, while blessed, heaven-born hopesAre beaming forth from her unshadowed heart,And lighting up her pale and placid faceAs beautifully as the sunlight glowsAnd trembles through a holy crystal fane.Close to her breast, her gently throbbing breast,Her young babe nestles as a thought of loveClings to the human soul. One little handIs pressed in hers, and now a soft sweet smileIs stealing o'er its lovely cherub-face.Gently she whispers to it of its dearAnd absent father, and the tear-drop brightIs quivering on her eyelid like the dewOn the blue violet's petal. And when softSweet slumber folds its calm, mysterious wingUpon her cherub's little breast, its quickLow breathings fall upon her listening earLike notes of heaven. Young mother, 'tis thy firstBright joy, thy first deep care--oh may it proveThy latest blessing. Since we parted lastFull many changes have passed o'er our lives,New ties around thy pure and noble heartAre twining, and they give to thy young lifeA bright wild charm. Thus may it ever beTo thee--may all the bright and glittering links,Which hold thee here a happy prisonerOn Time's dark shore, still form a blessed chainTo bind thy spirit also to the lovedWithin the angel world. Ah, I can lookWith tearful joy upon thy added tiesTo life, and feel within my heart my ownAre lessening fast. Oh may thy bud of loveExpand, and prove thy deep heart's sweetest flower,And may ye both, in God's own Paradise,Be glorious blossoms on His Tree of Life.LOUISVILLE, JUNE 2d.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithTo C. W. A., of Taylorsville.OH minstrel of the magic lyre, thy soulIs full of fancies high and beautiful.I ne'er have seen thee, yet thy gentle thoughtsAnd fairy dreams have wakened in my heart,A feeling so delicious, so divine,So soft, so dreamy, earnest and intense,That I have called it love. Oh yes, 'tis love,High spirit-love, my young soul feels for thineA sweet emotion, fluttering in my breast,With not one tinge of earth upon its pureAnd bright ethereal plumage. Minstrel, oft,Full oft, at twilight's calm and holy time,I've mused upon thy wild enchanting laysTill I have blent a haunting thought of theeWith the deep spirit of that sacred hour.And, in thy lofty inspiration, thouSo oft hast pictured visions that have lived,And breathed, and glowed, and brightened in my heart,That I have named thee, in excess of love,My spirit's own interpreter. InspiredAnd gifted poet, thou hast said the griefsThat shade my young and lonely life, should wakeA sympathy within thy noble heart.Oh for that sympathy! My spirit yearnsTo see and bless thee for thy kindly words.Warmly and fondly do I welcome thee,My soul's true friend. Ah, yes, we will be friends;Though we may never meet, the sunset blush,The lovely vesper star, the sweet pale moon,The flowers, the waves, the zephyr, and the dew,And all the thousand thrilling harmoniesOf Nature's holy lyre, shall link our soulsIn sweet companionship. It matters notThat we have never met, and may not meetIn all our wanderings here, for I shall knowAnd love thee, in the bright, the better world.Ay, I shall know thee, for my musing soul,Sleeping and waking, oft has pictured theeOn fancy's glowing canvas, and I feelThat truth is in the picture.When my soulIs revelling in joys and ecstasies,I'll send it laden with soft, rosy dreams,To hold sweet intercourse with thee; and whenMy thoughts and visions are of heaven, thy nameShall oft be spoken in my earnest prayers.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithTo a friend.OH thou hast called me thy own sister dear,And my wild heart, o'erfilled with burning love,Hath sprung, as springs the lark at early morn;To greet the golden beam of day's proud star;Or, as the pale and fainting floweret turnsIts wilted leaves to the refreshing dew.Dost ask to read this, wayward heart of mine,To scan its agonies, its wild, deep griefs?Would'st thou not turn away from me, when o'erThat volume dark thine eye should roam? Oh, say,Could'st love me still, friend of my darkened years?Life's weary sands are failing fast. When thouLookest upon this still and haughty face,Dost thou e'er dream that passion's maddening tideAll wildly rolls below? Ah, dost thou dreamThat smiles, which flit like golden shadows o'erMy careless brow, have lost the power to sootheThe wild and dark unrest of mind and heart?That like a fiendish power, ambition worksWithin my brain, and fiercely riots onMy warm and bounding soul? Each energyOf my strong nature, now is bent to gainFame's lofty summit, and I may not stopLife's flowers to gather. Better then that thouShould'st leave me now, and see me nevermore.Ne'er may we hope, within this world of woe,The separate currents of our lives to blend;Yet we have met and loved, and ere we part,I fain would lay my band upon thy brow,And bless thee purely, deeply, fervently,And ask thee, in the pure depths of thy soul,One flower to keep for ever 'mid life's sternAnd rushing conflict--the deep, earnest loveOf her whom thou hast called thy sister dear.LOUISVILLE, KY.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithBroken Barbiton-Withered Laurel-Wreath and Broken Heart. A SCENE FROM BULWER'S ZANONI.IT was the close of day upon the shoresOf beauteous Naples. The low murmuring wavesThat rose and fell upon the "Siren's sea,"Gleamed like pale rubies in the sunset glow;The dim isles, veiled in mists of silver, roseFar through the dim and shadowy atmosphere;The pale, sweet stars shone calm and beautifulIn the blue diadem of night, and shapesOf loveliness and beauty seemed to stealForth from the soft and deepening shades, as Love,And star-eyed Hope, and pensive MemorySteal from the twilight of the heart. Afar,Like a huge column moving in the heavens,Soared the gray smoke of old Vesuvius,From its broad base of lurid flame; the shaftOf Maro's tomb above the beetling cliffWas drawn against the deep blue sky, and softThe scattered gardens of the Caprea shone,Like "wrecks of Paradise." No human voiceBroke the deep spell of silence and repose,That rested like a calm, mysterious dreamUpon the landscape, yet the air still seemedAll musical, and strangely eloquentWith the hushed cadences and passion-sighsOf deep and burning love.Ah! 'mid this sceneOf loveliness and deep serenity,The traces of despair, and woe, and deathWere darkly visible. The twilight's lastSweet, rosy smile of gentleness and loveStole softly, calmly, beautifully throughThe parted vines that bloomed and clustered o'erThe window of an humble cottage home,And fell upon the white brow of the dead,As human love falls vainly on the heartOf cold despair. Alone the minstrel sleptIn his unbreathing rest. Upon the floor,Beside him, lay the cherished laurel-wreath.His only wealth, the guerdon of his toils,The one dear boon for which, through weary yearsOf bitter sorrows, he had patientlyStruggled and suffered, pouring forth his wild,Deep soul of music, while keen agonyWas tearing his great heart. There, there it layAll pale and withering, like the throbless browWhence it had fallen. There, beside him too,Broken and silent lay his barbiton,His own familiar, in whose spirit tonesHis spirit e'er had found in joy and griefA faithful echo. It had been his friend,True and unfailing, 'mid the darkened wrecksOf human friendships. It had been his love,His child, his life, and his religion. HeHad talked to it at twilight's wizard hour,The hour that now closed over it and him,And it had answered him in tones of moreThan earthly sympathy. And he had won,With its dear aid, the wreath so fondly deemedThe emblem of fame's immortality.But now the dust was on its loosened chords,That, like his own dark tresses, swept the floor,To sound no more, save when perchance the wind,Straying at nightfall through that ruined cot,Should gently stir them with its breath of sighs;To one low wail, one melancholy moan,For him who so had loved them. 'Twas a sceneTo move the heart to tears. The world around,The air, the earth, the sky, the ocean, seemedFlooded with beauty; every isle that gleamedIn the deep sea, and every sweet star isleThat glittered in the blue sky, seemed a brightCalypso of the heart, yet in that loneAnd silent cottage home, the minstrel pale--The wreath that he had purchased with the cries,The wild shrieks of his spirit--and the lyre,The sole companion of his life of toilHis heart's dear idol--mouldered side by side,Unheeded by the careless race of men.LOUISVILLE, FEBRUARY, 1852.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Orphan's Dream of fame.I LEARNED within myself to live. I saw,E'en in my childhood, that the heart's bright budsWithered and faded at the touch. I turnedFrom all life's empty, heartless mockeries,And wept my griefs away on Nature's breast.To me was given the deep and earnest loveOf holy solitude. I strayed aloneBy rock and stream, and through the forest depths,And found a sweet and dear companionshipIn every sight and sound that greeted meIn all my wayward wanderings. I learnedGlad music from the lark's free, gushing song,And my heart's sad and mournful minstrelsyFound sweet interpretation in the lowAnd gentle wailings of the stricken dove.My spirit rocked upon the swinging topsOf the tall oaks; it danced upon the wavesThat leaped in light and music or in wrathUpon the shore; it rode upon the winds,Soft whispering to the softly whispering leaves,Or pealing like some deep-toned instrumentThrough the green banners of the wood; it sailedUpon the clouds that floated beautifulOr dark with tempest; and it wandered oftAbove, to hold its joyous revelryWith all the thousand spirit-shapes that bathedTheir purple plumage in the rosy wavesFlooding the sunset. My dear mother's smile,Caught by the stars from Eden, sweetly shoneIn their pure light on my uplifted eyes,And her soft words of cheer came to my soulOn every gale of morn, and noon, and eve,And holy midnight. I was happy then,Ay, happy, my lost mother was in heaven,But Nature was my mother on the earth,And both seemed e'er to love me well. At lengthThere came a change. The maddening dream of fame,The wish to shine among earth's proudest, tookPossession of my soul. No more I lovedThe voice of birds, the shouting of the stream,And the green surging of the woods. I bowedIn seeming admiration of the throng,And felt my cheek burn and my pulses leapTo the vile breath of those I could but hateWithin my secret soul. The sneering thoughtThat started fiercely upward from my heart,Brightened to smiles upon my lips; my brainGrew dizzy, and the tear was in my eye,If with rude hand my spirit's chords were jarredBy those I longed to spurn beneath my feet.I wildly struggled for the world's applause,But trembled at the faintest word of blame.As 'twere the voice of destiny. I wonThe laurel crown, and with exulting heartI felt its thrilling pressure on my brow:But ah! a breath of poison from the crowdPassed o'er its blooming leaves, and nought remainedBut dust upon my temples. A bright nameWas my soul's idol, but a feeble blowFrom hands unworthy, shattered and cast downThat wildly worshipped idol from its shrine,For ever and for ever. Now, alas!Joy, love, hope, pride, ambition, all are deadWithin my breast. I smile in bitterness,To think with what a madness of the soulI sought a worthless bauble. Like a gleamOf moonlight from the mountain, or the flashOf an expiring meteor from the deep,Or the red glow of sunset from the west,That dream of fame has vanished from my life,And now I feel no pang of vain regretThat it has perished thus. But I look backWith tears and sighs on the departed years,When breeze and billow chanted to my soulTheir morning hymn and evening psalm; when softAnd beautiful night's silver crescent shoneUpon my spirit, and when all the starsWere to my eyes God's living poetry,Traced by His hand upon the sky's blue scroll.Ah! I am twice an orphan, for, alas!My mother Nature now is dead to me.LOUISVILLE, 1852.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithA Trifle to a friend, ON THE EVE OF HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE.THOU'LT leave us! O'er the wild waves of the deep,Where winds in fierce unrest for ever sweep,In dim, and dark, and distant lands to roam,A weary wanderer from thy Western home.Friend of my father, my full heart is stirred,And, ere thou go, 'twould breathe a parting word,And bid thee linger not on those far shoresFrom those who love thee in their hearts' deep cores.I've loved--I love thee, and in earnest prayerTo Heaven, I ask, that, when oppressed with care,Where Albion's gleaming cliffs are floating high,Like snowy clouds against her pale blue sky,Thou there may'st find a gentle friend, like me,To love, to tend, to guard and cherish thee;Soft, tender, true, affectionate, and kind,As the pure thoughts of thy own heart and mind.Thou goest forth with golden hopes, that gleamLike flashing sunshine on the morning stream--May those bright hopes ne'er melt away in tears,But glow and brighten through the coming years.Whether thou ling'rest where Italian skiesShine ever with their glorious Eden-dyes,Where the deep soul of love all wildly gleamsIn the mild lustre of the moon's sweet beams,And where bright lakes in their untroubled rest,Smile like young dimples upon Nature's breast;Or where the mountains of old SwitzerlandTower with their glaciers, stern, and wild, and grand;Or 'mid sweet Erin's emerald vales and bowers,Or in gay France to "chase the glowing hours"With merry jest, and laugh, and song, and dance,Forgetful of dark time and dreary chance;I pray thee, 'mid thy wanderings, still to keepWithin thy memory beautiful and deep,A gentle thought of me, a holy spellIn thy true soul--God bless thee, and farewell.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithThe Urn of the Heart.DEEP in my breast there is a sacred urnI ever guard with holiest care, and keepFrom the cold world's intrusion. It is filledWith dear and lovely treasures, that I prizeAbove the gems that sparkle in the valesOf Orient climes, or glitter in the crownsOf sceptred kings. The priceless wealth of lifeWithin that urn is gathered. All the brightAnd lovely jewels that the years have droppedAround me from their pinions, in their swiftAnd noiseless flight to old Eternity,Are treasured there. A thousand buds and flowers,That the cool dews of life's young morning bathed,That its soft gales fanned with their gentle wings,And that its genial sunbeams warmed to life,And fairy beauty 'mid the melodiesOf founts and singing birds, lie hoarded there,Dead, dead, for ever dead! but, oh, as brightAnd beautiful to me, as when they beamedWith Nature's radiant jewelry of dew.And they have more than mortal sweetness now,For the dear breath of loved ones, loved and lost,Is mingling with their holy perfume.A very miser, day and night I hideThe hoarded riches of my dear heart-urn.Oft at the midnight's calm and silent hour,When not a tone of living nature seemsTo rise from all the lone and sleeping earth,I lift the lid softly and noiselessly,Lest some dark, wandering spirit of the airPerchance should catch with his quick ear the sound,And steal my treasures. With a glistening eyeAnd leaping pulse, I tell them o'er and o'er,Musing on each, and hallow it with smiles,And tears, and sighs, and fervent blessings. ThenWith soul as proud as if yon broad blue sky,With all its bright and burning stars were mine,But with a saddened heart, I close the lid,And once again return to busy life,To play my part amid its mockeries.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithRecollections.THE twilight now is blushing o'er the earth--The west is glowing like a garden, richWith Summer's many-tinted blooms; the flowersOf earth hold up their fairy cups to catchThe softly falling dew-drops; the bright starsAre set like glorious diamonds on the darkBlue drapery or the halls of heaven; the paleSweet moon, like some young angel of the air,Floats from the east upon her silver wing;Eve's golden clouds hang low--and thin, white mistsRise silently and beautifully upThrough the calm atmosphere serenityAnd loveliness and beauty are abroadO'er the whole world of nature At this hour,When all the dark, wild passions of the breastAre hushed and quelled by Nature's spell of power,When every wayward feeling is rebukedAnd chastened by the blended influenceOf earth and heaven, I've stolen forth aloneBeneath the blue and glorious sky, to holdCommunion with the golden hours now goneInto the past eternity. My heartIs very soft to-night, and joys long pastShine through the silver mists of memory,Like sweet stars of the soul. My brow is flushed,My bosom throbs, and blessed tears well upFrom my heart's unsealed fountain, as I seeThrough the pale shadows of the years, the homeWhere first I felt the sweet, bewildering blissOf now existence. Softly, through the deepGreen foliage of the grove, the beautifulWhite cottage peeps with its thick-blooming vines,And in the distance the still church-yard, whereRepose the cold, unthrobbing hearts of thoseI loved in childhood, lifts its marble shaftsBeneath the drooping willows. I beholdThe shaded paths where my young footsteps strayedTo gather wild flowers at the morning tide,And for a few brief moments once againI seem to wander through the dear old wood.The birds sing round me, the dark forest pines,Stirred by the breeze, make music like the lowFaint murmurs of the sea, my playmates shoutBeside me, and my mother's music callOf gentle love is in my ear. Oh, there,In that sweet home, I cherished fairy dreamsOf happiness, and all my being woreA glow of deep, ideal loveliness.My vanished childhood rises to my viewIn pale and melancholy beauty. LifeSince then hath been but desolate. Alas!What heart-chords have been broken, what bright dreamsBeen shadowed by the hue of grief. No moreThe Egeria of my spirit-worship hauntsThe grove and wood. No charm can woo her back,She will not hear my call, she answers notThe witching spell of fancy. It is notThat nature has grown old. Her skies are still As blue, her trees as green, her dews as soft,Her flowers as sweet, her clouds as beautiful,Her birds, her waves, her minds as musicalAs when I was a child--Alas! the changeIs in my heart. Oh, blessed memoriesOf home! ye are the worshipped household godsUpon my spirit's altar. Vanished years!Ye are the dew-drops that my spirit's flowersEnfold within their petals. Years have passedSince that all-mournful day, when, with a sadAnd breaking heart, and streaming eyes, I leftThe scenes of childhood, and went forth to findA home amid the stranger crowds, where IHave learned to wear the mask that others wear,To smile while agony is in my soul.Yet at an hour like this, when Nature glowsWith deepest loveliness, when earth and heavenUnite to woo my heart from its retreatOf gloom and sorrow, I can wander backTo quench my faint and sinking spirit's thirstAt young life's gushing fountains, and forgetThat I am not once more a happy child.Griffith, Mattie [Martha]Browne, Mattie GriffithTo ------, during his Illness. THOU wilt not leave me, Love, to pine aloneUpon the dreary desert of the world.Thou wilt not, must not, nay, thou canst not die,And leave me here, a lonely, withering flower,Torn from its parent stem and torn from thee,Its dear flower-mate, and thrown upon the coldUnsympathizing earth to sigh awayIts breath upon the gales of autumn. ThouMust never leave me, dearest, for with theeMy spirit's life would perish. I have markedThy pale cheek growing paler; I have watchedThe bright, unearthly glitter of thine eye,And seen the crimson spot upon thy brow,The omens of the grave. Thy pallid lipTrembles as with a keen, unspoken pain,And there are times when o'er thy sunken faceDeep, mournful shadows, and bright spirit-gleams,Follow each other, telling that thy thoughtsAre of the tomb and heaven. Thy hand is cold,And damp and deathlike when 'tis pressed in mine,And though few years have yet been thine on earth,Bright silver threads, like waning spectres, gleamAmid the raven curls that float aroundThy temples pale. Thy voice hath fainter grown,And though its melody is sweeter nowThan even when, in thy young years of healthAnd manly strength, thy first dear words of loveWere breathed into my ear, its sweetness seemsCaught from the spirit-world. Ay, its low tonesSoften and melt, each day, as if they wereAttuning, even now, their cadencesTo join the angel harmonies that floatUpon the air of Eden. Yet, oh stay!The earth is beautiful to thee; and whileThou lingerest here, thy presence makes it brightAnd beautiful to me. Stay! stay! oh stay!And do not leave my life a cheerless night,Without one gleaming star upon the coldBlue desert of its sky. My heart has flungThe whole wealth of its hoarded love on thee;Fame's choicest garland blooms upon thy brow,Won proudly by thy glorious genius; thineIs the loud worship of the shouting throng;Fortune has poured her treasures at thy feet,And many friends, who love thee earnestly,Are watching with alternate hope and fearFrom day to day the changes of thy face,Betokening life or death. Then live, oh liveFor me, for friends, for glory, for mankind!Thy strength of soul has made thee conquerorIn every mortal strife. Oh struggle nowWith the last enemy! Ah, well I knowThat thou, whose tones were never breathed in vain,Canst, by their deep, enchanting music, win'I'he angel health back to thy life once more.LOUISVILLE, 1852.THE END.