. The poetical works of Fitz-Greene Halleck : Now first collected ; illustrated with steel engravings, from drawings by American artists . Fame, whose whispers once could win me From all I loved, is powerless ever is a form, a face Of maiden beauty in my dreams,Speeding before me, like the race To ocean of the mountain streams—With dancing hair, and laughing eyes,That seem to mock me as it flies. VI. My sword—it slumbers in its sheath; My hopes—their starry light is gone;My heart—the fabled clock of death Beats with the same low, lingering toneAnd this, the land of Magdalen, Seems no
. The poetical works of Fitz-Greene Halleck : Now first collected ; illustrated with steel engravings, from drawings by American artists . Fame, whose whispers once could win me From all I loved, is powerless ever is a form, a face Of maiden beauty in my dreams,Speeding before me, like the race To ocean of the mountain streams—With dancing hair, and laughing eyes,That seem to mock me as it flies. VI. My sword—it slumbers in its sheath; My hopes—their starry light is gone;My heart—the fabled clock of death Beats with the same low, lingering toneAnd this, the land of Magdalen, Seems now the only spot on earth 80 MAGDALEN. Where skies are blue and flowers are green; And here Id build my household hearth,And breathe my song of joy, and twineA lovely beings name with mine. VII. In vain! in vain ! the sail is spread; To sea! to sea ! my task is there;But when among the unmourned dead They lay me, and the ocean airBrings tidings of my day of doom, Mayst thou be then, as now thou art,The load-star of a happy home; In smile and voice, in eye and heartThe same as thou hast ever been,The loved, the lovely Magdalen. FROM THE ITALIAN Eyes with the same blue witchery as those Of Psyche, which caught Love in his own wiles ; Lips of the breath and hue of the red rose, That move but with kind words and sweetest smiles; A power of motion and of look, whose art Throws, silently, around the wildest heart The net it would not break; a form which vies With that the Grecian imaged in his mind, And gazed upon in dreams, and sighed to find His breathing marble could not realize. L 82 FROM THE ITALIAN. Know ye this picture? There is one aloneCan call its pencilled lineaments her whom, at morning, when the summer airWanders, delighted, oer her face of flowers,And lingers in the ringlets of her hair,We deem the Hebe of Joves banquet hours;She who, at evening, when her fingers pressThe harp, and wake its harmonies divine,Seems sweetest-voiced and loveliest of the Nine,
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