The Deserted Wife

HE comes not--I have watch'd the moon go down,

But yet he comes not--Once it was not so.

He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow,

The while he holds his riot in that town.

Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep;

And he will wake my infant from its sleep,

To blend its feeble wailing with my tears.

O! how I love a mother's watch to keep,

Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers

My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix'd and deep.

I had a husband once, who loved me--now

He ever wears a frown upon his brow,

And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip,

As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip;

But yet I cannot hate--O! there were hours,

When I could hang for ever on his eye,

And time who stole with silent swiftness by,

Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.

I loved him then--he loved me too--My heart

Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile;

The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;

And though he often sting me with a dart,

Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile,

Caresses which his babe and mine should share;

Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear

His madness--and should sickness come, and lay

Its paralyzing hand upon him, then

I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,

Until the penitent should weep, and say

How injured, and how faithful I had been.

James Gates Percival

The Coral Grove

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,

Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,

Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,

That never are wet with falling dew,

But in bright and changeful beauty shine,

Far down in the green and glassy brine.

The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,

And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow;

From coral rocks the sea plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;

The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,

And the sands are bright as the stars that glow

In the motionless fields of upper air:

There with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water,

And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen

To bluch, like a banner bathed in slaughter:

There with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;

And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean

Are bending like corn on the upland lea:

And life, in rare and beautiful forms,

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,

And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,

Has made the top of the waves his own:

And when the ship from his fury flies,

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,

When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,

And demons are waiting the wreck on shore;

Then far below in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,

Where the waters murmur tranquilly,

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

James Gates Percival

To Seneca Lake

ON thy fair bosom, silver lake!

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,

And round his breast the ripples break,

As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!

The dipping paddle echoes far,

And flashes in the moonlight gleam,

And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north wind, heave their foam,

And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide,

And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,

A sheet of silver spreads below,

And swift she cuts, at highest noon,

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!

O! I could ever sweep the oar,

When early birds at morning wake,

And evening tells us toil is o'er.

James Gates Percival

Spring

AGAIN the infant flowers of Spring

Call thee to sport on thy rainbow wing--

Spirit of Beauty! the air is bright

With the boundless flow of thy mellow light;

The woods are ready to bud and bloom,

And are weaving for Summer their quiet gloom;

The turfed brook reflects, as it flows,

The tips of the half-unopen'd rose,

And the early bird, as he carols free,

Sings to his little love, and thee.

See how the clouds, as they fleetly pass,

Throw their shadowy veil on the darkening grass;

And the pattering showers and stealing dews,

With their starry gems and skyey hues,

From the oozy meadow, that drinks the tide,

To the shelter'd vale on the mountain side,

Wake to a new and fresher birth

The tenderest tribes of teeming earth,

And scatter with light and dallying play

Their earliest flowers on the zephyr's way.

He comes from the mountain's piny steep,

For the long boughs bend with a silent sweep,

And his rapid steps have hurried o'er

The grassy hills to the pebbly shore;

And now, on the breast of the lonely lake,

The waves in silvery glances break,

Like a short and quickly rolling sea,

When the gale first feels its liberty,

And the flakes of foam, like coursers, run,

Rejoicing beneath the vertical sun.

He has cross'd the lake, and the forest heaves,

To the sway of his wings, its billowy leaves,

And the downy tufts of the meadow fly

In snowy clouds, as he passes by,

And softly beneath his noiseless tread

The odorous spring-grass bends its head;

And now he reaches the woven bower,

Where he meets his own beloved flower,

And gladly his wearied limbs repose,

In the shade of the newly-opening rose.

James Gates Percival

May

I FEEL newer life in every gale;

The winds, that fan the flowers,

And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,

Tell of serener hours--

Of hours that glide unfelt away

beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls

From his blue throne of air,

And where his whispering voice in music falls,

Beauty is budding there;

The bright ones of the valley break

Their slumbers, and awake.

The waving verdue rolls along the plain,

And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again,

A canopy of leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats

A gush of trembling notes.

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;

The tresses of the woods

With the light dallying of the west-wind play;

And the full-brimming floods,

As gladly to their goal they run,

Hail the returning sun.

James Gates Percival