I go from one with whom to part,
  Is grief that can’t be spoken,
From whom to rend my faithful heart,
  That heart, even now, is broken.

SHE WOULD HAVE IT SO.

I loved her; and beneath the moon,
We met among the flowers of June;
I gave her my all, my love’s rich boon,
I loved her, but we parted soon,
      She would have it so.

I loved her; through my span of life,
She might have been my cherished wife;
And I had striven, with ceaseless strife,
To make her days with pleasures rife;
      She would not have it so.

I loved her; for she bent on me
A smile and look of sorcery;
Until my heart could not be free;
Alas! that such deceit should be;—­
      But she would have it so.

I loved her; and my heart was broke,
Beneath the heavy, crushing stroke;
As ’neath the lightning dies the oak
When she in scorn and anger spoke;
      She would have it so!

TO FANNIE.

Fair maid, in those beloved eyes,
  The dream of pensive beauty lies,
The radiance when the day grows less,
  The charm of twilight loveliness.

Those eyes are mirror of thy soul;
  As in the waves that deeply roll,
The sun and moon and stars are seen,
  Reflected with undimmed sheen.

Thus in the depths of those fair eyes,
  I see the brightness of the skies,
I would my image there might shine
  In orbs so blessed and divine.

ON HEARING THAT MY LOVE WAS ANGRY.

Sweet love! and wast thou angry then,
  And did a lovely frown,
O’ershade that brow of whitest pearl,
  That cheek of softest down?

Nay, be not so; thou can’st not be,
  Less lovely to my sight;
Though darkness shade the cliff and vale,
  Yet starry is the night!

TO A POET.

O poet, would’st thou make a name
  That ne’er will die,
But be coeval with the lights
  In yonder sky?

Strike not a single, trembling chord,
  In the heart-lyre;
But wake the full and sweet accord
  Of every wire.

Of joy, of grief, of hopeless love
  And pining care,
Of terror, pain, and deep remorse,
  And wild despair.

Of Hope, of Faith, of Piety: 
  Each fibre move;
But yet the sweetest note shall be
  The note of Love.

Strike! poet! strike each quiv’ring chord,
  In that strange lyre,
Then, men thy golden songs will hoard,
  Till time expire.

THE CHILD’S PRAYER.

O Lord, I kneel at mother’s knee,
And lift my trembling heart to thee. 
Send down thy grace, I meekly pray,
To drive my evil thoughts away: 
Alas! even now I feel my heart,
From God is learning to depart.