Marietta Holley

The world is asleep!    All hushed is Nature's warm, sweet breath. The world is asleep, and dreaming the silent dream of snow, But through the silence that seems like the silence of death,

The years go by, but they little seem Like those within our dream; The years that stood in such luring guise,

Oh! the day was dark and dreary, For clouds swept o'er the sun, The burden of life seemed heavy,

My heart sings like a bird to-night That flies to its nest in the soft twilight, And sings in its brooding bliss;

What though upon a wintry sea our life bark sails, What though we tremble 'neath its cruel gales, Its icy blast;

The sky is dark and the air is full of snow, I go to a warmer clime afar and away; Though my heart is so tired I do not care for it now,

How the sumac banners bent, dripping as if with blood, What a mournful presence brooded upon the slumbrous air; A mocking-bird screamed noisily in the depth of the silent wood,

Yes! yes! I dare say it is so, And you should be pitied, but how could I know, Watching alone by the moon-lit bay;

The clouds that vex the upper deep Stay not the white sail of the moon; And lips may moan, and hearts may weep,

Once through an autumn wood I roamed in tearful mood, By grief dismayed, doubting, and ill at ease;

I. There's a tear in your eye, little Sybil, Gathering large and slow;

Lift up your brown eyes, darling, Not timidly and shy, As in the fair, lost past, not thus

I turn the key in this idle hour Of an ivory box, and looking, lo - See only dust - the dust of a flower;

Gayly a knight set forth against the foe, For a fair face had shone on him in dreams; A voice had stirred the silence of his sleep,

Smooth the hair; Silken waves of sunny brown Lay upon the white brow down,

Again I see that May moon shine, Dost thou remember, soul of mine? I held your hand in mine, you know,

What though the Eden morns were sweet with song Passing all sweetness that our thought can reach; Crushing its flowers noon's chariot moved along

In his arm-chair, warmly cushioned, In the quiet earned by labor, Life's reposeful Indian summer,

So all things come to our mind at last, He is close by your side in the twilight gloom, And you two are alone in the dim old room,

A spirit is out to-night! His steeds are the winds; oh, list, How he madly sweeps o'er the clouds,

I might strive as well to melt to softness the soulless breast Of some fair and saintly image, carven out of stone, With my smile, as to stir you heart from its icy rest,

Isabelle has gold, and lands, Fate gave her a fair lot; Like the white lilies of the field

I never shall hear your voice again, Your voice so gentle and low But the thought of you, Jenny Allen,

In the unquiet night, With all her beauty bright, She walketh my silent chamber to and fro;

Clasp your arms round her neck to-night, Little Nell, Arms so delicate, soft and white,

Who falsely called thee destroyer, still white Angel of Death? Oh not a destroyer here, but a kind restorer, thou, For the guilty look is gone, died out with her failing breath,

I said that I would see Her once, to curse her fair, deceitful grace, To curse her for my life-long agony;

Last night she came unto me, And kneeling by my side, Laid her head upon my bosom,

Soft o'er the meadow, and murmuring mere, Falleth a shadow, near and more near; Day like a white dove floats down the sky,

She lay asleep, and her face shone white As under a snowy veil, And the waxen hands clasped on her breast

She sat in the cottage door, and the fair June moon looked down On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face and sweet As the roses dewy white that grow so thick at her feet,

Come to me soft-eyed sleep, With your ermine sandalled feet; Press the pain from my troubled brow

Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night, Come with the stars and the white moonbeams, Come with your train of handmaids bright,

On the shore I sit and gaze Out on the twilight sea, For my ship may come, though many days

Oh, the days are growing longer; So rang the jubilant song of the swallow; I come a-bringing beauty into the land,

The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started In gray and hidden nooks o'erhung by feathery ferns and heather, And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted

The Squire was none of your common men Whose ancestors nobody knows, But visible was his lineage

I. Like idle clouds our lives move on, By change and chance as idly blown;

Like emerald lakes the meadows lie, And daisies dot the main; The sunbeams from the deep blue sky

You will journey many a weary day and long, Ere you will see so restful and sweet a place, As this, my home, my nest so downy and warm,

Now sinks the Summer sun into the sea; Sure never such a sunset shone as this, That on its golden wing has borne such bliss;

High on a rocky cliff did once a gray old castle stand, From whence rough-bearded chieftains led their vassals - ruled the land. For centuries had dwelt here sire and son, till it befell,

How can I be to blame? Is it my fault I am fair? I did not fashion my features,

As on a waveless sea, a vessel strikes Upon a treacherous rock; Waking the sailors from their happy dreams

The spare-room windows wide were raised, And you could look that summer day On pastures green, and sunny hills,

'Twas a bleak dull moor that stretched before The low stone porch of the cottage door, And standing there was youth and maid,

A long, low waste of yellow sand Lay shining northward far as eye could reach, Southward a rocky bluff rose high

Here in the silent doorway let me linger One moment, for the porch is still and lonely; That shadow's but the rose vine in the moonlight;

It stands alone on a haunted shore, With curious words of deathless lore On its massive gate impearled;

Clear shone the moon, my mansion walls Towered white above the wood, Near, down the dark oak avenue

Sitting alone in the windy tower, While the waves leap high, or are low at rest, What does she think of, hour by hour,

I sit in the cloud and the darkness Where I lost you, peerless one; Your bright face shines upon fairer lands,

Now while the crimson light fades in the west, And twilight drops her purple shadows low - We stand with Memory on the mountain's crest,

Is his form hidden by some cliff or crag, Or does he loiter on the shelving shore? We know not, though we know he waits for us,

Put the crown of your love on my forehead, Its sweet links clasped with a kiss, And all the great monarchs of England

I asked to see the dead man's face, As I gave the servant my well-filled basket; And she deigned to lead me, a wondrous grace,

Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea, The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before; I stand a fairy shape upon the shadow of a cliff

"I leave my child to Heaven."    And with these words Upon her lips, the Lady Mildred passed Unto the rest prepared for her pure soul;

I am thinking of fern forests that once did towering stand, Crowning all the barren mountains, shading all the dreary land. Oh, the dreadful, quiet brooding, the solitude sublime,

Not far away does that bright city stand, 'Tis but the mist o'er its dividing stream, That wraps the glory of its glitt'ring strand,

I am an outcast, sinful and vile I know, But what are you, my lady, so fair, and proud, and high? The fringe of your robe just touched me, me so low -

In a waste of yellow sand, on the brow of a dreary hill, A slight little slip of a rose struggled up to the light, The seed maybe was sown there by the south wind's idle will,

"My house is thatched with violet leaves And paved with daisies fine, Scarlet berries droop over its eaves,

Draped in shadows stands the mountain Against the eastern sky, Above it the fair summer moon

I know not where you wait for me in all your maiden sweetness, Sweet soul in whom my life will find its rest, its full completeness; But somewhere you await me, Fate will lead us to each other,

When enwrapped in rosy pleasure, Our careless pulses beat, With a rhythm sweet, sweet,

It is not the lark's clear tone Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry, Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night -

Oh gay young husbandmen would you be sure of a crop Upspringing rankly, an abundant and bountiful yield? Go forth in the morning, and sow on your life's broad field