Her drooping eyelids half conceal
A vague, uncertain mystery;
Her tender glances half reveal
A sad, impassioned history;
A tale of hopes and fears unspoken
Of thoughts that die and leave no token.
"Oh braid a wreath of budding sprays
And crown me queen," the maiden says;
"Queen of the shadowy woodland ways,
And wandering winds, whose cadences
Are unto thee that tale repeating
Which I must perish while secreting!"
I wove a wreath of leaves and buds
And flowers with golden chalices,
And crowned her queen of summer woods
And dreamy forest palaces;
Queen of that realm whose tender story
Makes life a splendor, death a glory.
_Quarterly_, 1856.
CORSICA
ANON.
A lonely island in the South, it shows
Its frosted brow, and waves its shaggy woods,
And sullenly above the billow broods.
Here he that shook the frighted world arose.
'Twas here he gained the strength the wing to plume,
To swoop upon the Arno's classic plains,
And drink the noblest blood of Europe's veins--
His eye but glanced and nations felt their doom!
Alas! "how art thou fall'n, oh Lucifer,
Son of the morning!" thou who wast the scourge
And glory of the earth--whose nod could urge.
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