And when I saw thee lightly whirl
  Through that ecstatic dance,
My happy spirit flew with thee,
  As in a joyous trance.

Sweet maiden, when thou pass’d’st away,
  I felt a soft regret;
And oh! thy genius and thy charms,
  I never shall forget.

Sweet maiden, fare thee—­fare thee well! 
  Thou sing’st and flitt’st away—­
A thing that charmed us, and shall be,
  Remembered through life’s day.

MONTICELLO.

On Monticello’s classic brow,
  I stood and gazed around on earth;
And feelings of no common glow,
  Within my bosom had their birth.

The glorious memory of the past,
  When valor, single-handed, won,
The brightest boon for man at last,
  Freedom for every sire and son.

I thought how strangely, wildly rung
  That dictum in the world’s dull ear,
Breathed with a firm, unfaltering tongue,
  “No tyrant’s pride shall flourish here.”

But, look upon yon humble tomb,
  Oh! does it hide some humble one? 
Now, part the mountain’s leafy bloom,—­
  Is this the grave of Jefferson?

Huge shame confound this long neglect,
  That thus o’ershades his resting place,
Who, living, sought to raise, protect,
  And fit, this home of Adam’s race.

Who guards that most illustrious tomb,
  And welcomes there the pilgrim’s love? 
A stranger to his native soil,
  Stands sentinel his grave above.

Virginia! oh! retrieve thy name,
  No longer scorn thy source of pride;
Pay double tribute to their fame,
  Whose shades so long in vain have sighed.

Rear monuments to tell the world,
  The virtues of departed worth,
Till yonder sun in night be hurled,
  The glorious heritage of earth.

Then through the ages that succeed,
  The hearts shall come from every shore,
To worship where their relics lie,
  Whose glorious fame can die no more.

TO MARIAN.

Dear Marian, thou art far away,
And I’m disconsolate to-day,
            In sorrow sighing;
My pleasant thoughts lie like the leaves,
O’er whose cold heads AEolus grieves,
            Complaining, dying. 
’Tis weary, dreary, dreary here,
The yellow leaves are falling sere,
            With mournful rustling,
The little bird has hush’d his song,
And close the greener boughs among
            He’s coldly nestling. 
How sad the high wind’s sounding dirge,
As ’twere old ocean’s moaning surge,
            Around our dwelling;
I well may tell the reason why,
But oh! the teardrops in mine eye
            Are swiftly swelling. 
The world is sad, and I am so;
Does Marian hear my plaint?  Oh, no;
            She’s far away. 
Ye envious streams—­ye hateful hills!