The Love that speaks in word and kiss,
That dyes the cheek and fires the eye,
Through surface signs of shallow bliss
That, quickly born, may quickly die;
Sweet, sweet are these to man and woman;
Who thinks them poor is less than human.

But I do know a quavering tone,
And I do know lack-lustre eyes,
Behind the which, dumb and alone,
A stronger Love his labour plies:
He cannot sing or dance or toy--
He works and sighs for other's joy.

In gloom he tends the growth of food,
While others joy in sun and flowers:
None knows the passion of his mood

My love's unchanged--though time, alas!
Turns silver-gilt the golden mass
Of flowing hair, and pales, I wis,
The rose that deepened with that kiss--
The first--before our marriage was.

And though the fields of corn and grass,
So radiant then, as summers pass
Lose something of their look of bliss,
My love's unchanged.

Our tiny girl's a sturdy lass;
Our boy's shrill pipe descends to bass;
New friends appear, the old we miss;
My Love grows old ... in spite of this
My love's unchanged.

We are told of a beautiful land of love,
Of bright jeweled mansions in blue skies above;
Of mansions that glitter with diamonds and gold;
While air of sweet odors their fair walls enfold,
Of heavenly music, soft, thrilling, divine,
Fountains that sparkle, and bright suns that shine,
Birds of gay plumage with song fill the air,
Flowers all lovely and crowns with gems rare.

All this we are told and many things more,
Of Heaven's fair Jordan, an evergreen shore;
Its golden gates ever are standing ajar,
Where fall huge burdens we have carried so far;

I would tell thee of Stella, how she made glad the hours,
So oft calling mother with strewn wreaths and flowers,
Blue eyes fondly glancing, and gleefully dance,
While singing so gayly or skipping, perchance.

Then comes my son Ernest, an affectionate boy,
So true and so thoughtful, never aught but a joy,
E'er steady and happy, eyes earnest and clear;
His dear voice so merry, methinks I still hear.

I would say of Marie, that she is very fair,
With ways of a lady, and golden-waved hair;
She scolds and laughs sweetly, while people all tell,

Weep not for him who, in the battle dying,
Lives in the lays of those he sought to save;
Weep not for him who on the cold turf lying,
Finds in his native land a patriot's grave;
Weep not for him for whom the night wind, sighing,
Spreads o'er his bier the banner of the brave;
But, o'er the ashes of the dead hussar,
Shout to the thunder and the trump of war.

Go weep for her who, by her Love's side sighing,
Gives to the grave the form she loved so well;
And weep for her who meets no soft replying
To the sweet story she would die to tell;

Fare thee well, O Love of Woman!
Lip of Beauty, fare thee well!
Thy soft heart, divinely human,
Holds me by a magic spell.
All that grieves me now to perish
Is the loss of one bright eye,
And I still the vision cherish
While I lay me down to die.

At my headstone, kindly kneeling,
May I beg a votive tear?
Woman, with her pure appealing,
Is my angel at the bier.
Let me have but one such linger,
Praying Christ to help and save,
Let me have but one dear finger
Place a chaplet on my grave.

Though the soldier dies in dying,

As I stroll by the stream where you stray,
A beam is reflected afar,
Which seems, on the waters, a ray--
The ray from a luminous star.
What is it that sweetens my sight,
That lightens the leaf-burthened skies?
What is it, my Love, but the light,--
The light of your beautiful eyes?

As nearer and nearer I roam,
In the month of the rosy-mouthed June,
What is it that throws round your home
The mirage of the mystical moon?
What is it that softens my sight,
That mellows the marvellous skies?
What is it, my Love, but the light,--

I have loved you all my days,
Betsie Brown,
And I'll never cease to praise
Betsie Brown;
Still must I break love's tie,
To act a patriot part,
But I'll yield thee, as I die,
The last throb of my heart,
Betsie Brown!

For my country let me die,
Betsie Brown,
And never grieve nor cry,
Betsie Brown,
But lay me down to sleep
Where my country's tempests rave,
Where its mountain moss can creep
O'er an humble patriot's grave,
Betsie Brown!

And should my boy, with thee,

The maid for man to love,
All other forms above,
Is she whose home adorns the loam of this fair land of mine:
American in sire,
She's born of love and fire,
And dominates the heart of man as by a right divine.

By rhyming swain pursued,
She meets the puling dude,
Whose hopes to win are centered in his pale Platonic plan;
American in heart,
She spurns his petty part,
Then, speeds him to the army mess to prove himself a man.

With tact burned in the bone,

A boy's young fancy taketh love
Most simply, with the rind thereof;
A boy's young fancy tasteth more
The rind, than the deific core.
Ah, Sweet! to cast away the slips
Of unessential rind, and lips
Fix on the immortal core, is well;
But heard'st thou ever any tell
Of such a fool would take for food
Aspect and scent, however good,
Of sweetest core Love's orchards grow?
Should such a phantast please him so,
Love where Love's reverent self denies
Love to feed, but with his eyes,
All the savour, all the touch,
Another's--was there ever such?