P O E M S M B A N N E . L O U N T I S S I R . AUGU TA GA S , P B LI H E N O R R E U S D D . B Y H . 2 2 6 T E E T . N O . B R O A D S R 1 860 . Ente ed accordin to Act of Con ress in th e ear 1 860 b r g g , y , y N O R R EL L H . D . , th e ’ o h tn t u fo r h In Clerk s Offi ce f t e s c Co rt t e South ern District of Georgia . D E D I A T I N C O . — THIS little volume a humble but sin ce r e tribute of — e ste em is d edicate d ‘ To on e se eni s an d e en e se , who g u loqu c , who public worth an d r te es e m e him th e e an d st of p iva virtu , hav ad prid boa his n t e n se en efic n fl en ce ex e te the a iv la d . Who b ial i u r d for n ess an d s e Ge e s c happi pro p rity of orgia, who lov to all him S ON an d the e n e e ts him n , tir South that d ligh to do ho or, s en m e h as c m e e c will la t wh arbl ru bl d to d ay . — Whose memory in th e he arts of all who appre ciate n li e t en e s s n e t se obi ty of h ar , g ro ity of oul, i t gri y of purpo , — an d pure p atriotism will live lon g afte r th e se al of d e ath has clo se d his lips an d hus he d the music Of his eloqu en t voice . On e wh o has e en c r e e m n , lov d to ou ag laudabl a bitio — delighte d to aid strugglin g gen ius who h as n eve r turn e d a e ear th e e e s e c ee th e es n d af to tal of pity, or r fu d to h r d po d n en t soul by kin d a d gen tle word s. On e wh o has a e him n his et emen t m , c rri d with i to r ir fro l c i e th e in s e s the m n an d th e e s ee m pub i l f , k d wi h , ad iratio , t c fo e as e as en an d s n s - th e of politi al w ll fri d ; who ta d to day, is es an d n e s in m an embodimen t of all that b t obl t . On e whom the author is proud to call her frien d an d ee s she is ec n th e sen t men s n n in s i n f l that hoi g i t of a atio ay g, None kn w him b ut to l e him o ov , N on e n ame him b u t to praise H O N . ! E . T S A L E A N D R H S E P H E N . 56 70 8 9 C O N T E N T S . T HE DYING ARTIST ALICE MAY ! I LL BE THY BRIDE TO PICCOLOMIN I REVEN GE WHAT IS L IFE ! CAR RIE BELL THE DEATH SCENE TELL ME W HY L ITTLE ANN IE TO MY LITTLE CANARY BIRD IDLE RHYMES T HE CO! UETT E A D REAM A POEM T HE OLD MAN ' S SON G TO HIS WIFE TO YOU TO MY BROTHER HUMAN BEAUTY THE ONE I PR IZE HYMN TO OLD A GE CASTLES BUILT IN THE GOALS T HE D ESERTED WIFE MY MOT HER LOVE’ S LAST RE! UEST AN A UT UIWN REVERIE T HE MORN ING LIGHT FORGETFULNESS TO L ITTLE STEVIE HEART ILL US ION MODERN LOVE ! I WISH SOMEBODY WOULD COME ” AT REST MY MOTHER’ S GRAVE HOPE VI CONTENTS . N0 MORE PHAN TOMS OF MY SLEEP DEATH AT SEA THE LOCK OF HAIR FAD IN G SUMMER LOVED AND LOST GOD B LESS YOU I” AL ONE ! LOVE NOT T HE CITY OF THE DEAD FAME PLEASURE AN D RE GION , , LI WOMAN ’ S LOVE TO A YOUNG POETESS T HE G RAVE IN T HE HEART THE DYIN G YOUN G WIFE WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON FAREWELL THE POET ' S DREAM T HE MOTHER’ S PRAYER T HE B ROKEN HEART VERSES AWEARY RETROSPECTION MILLER’ S GR AVE THE EVEN IN G STAR THE APPROACHIN G FOOTSTEP PARTIN G THE PAST T HE ROSE AND T HE LAUREL SU DDEN D EATH GLITTER TR UTE T A T HER A IB O C P . NDON T HE OLD FARM-HOUS E T HE GIPSY BRIDE UN DER THE LAMPLIGHT H E R EA D T O T ER . — SOME of these poems if they deserve the name are fugitive pieces that have floated about in the papers and magazines of the day , and have been collected and thrown together in book form . A number of others are given to the public for the first time , to receive its approval , its criticism , or its cool indifference . THE AUTHOR . ST G A . J AN. 1 860 . AUGU A , , , P O E M S T H E D Y I N G A R T I S T . PUT — his aside his easel softly lay pencils gently by , - Ope the window shutters lightly , let him look upon the sky a i For the st rs which sh ne so brightly , lighting up each gloomy cave , ’ When they burn again in beauty will shed lustre o er his grave . Let the soft rich air of Egypt kiss once more his fading brow , ’ i But , though laden o er w th memories , it cannot charm him now - i For the life light dim is grow ng in his earnest, thought ful eye — And his cheek is growing whiter yes , we know that he must die 1 ’ There , within that temple ancient , mid its columns Old grand and , Where the moonbeams o ’er those ruins cast their rays Of paly gold Where the eye could rest enchantedly o ’er many an ancient pile , And the ear coul d list in rapture to the music of the Nile 10 THE DYING ARTIST . ’ In that land of memories olden— mid those ruins bleak and hoary , Stately columns mutely telling tales of past Egyp tian glory , When Egypt’s gods were worshipped in the days forever gone , And thousands pressed with eager feet to bow before a stone There within that grand old temple , reared beneath the ’ heavens blue dome , Our Christian friend was dying , far from friends and far from home . Stranger hands must smooth the tresses o ’er his fore head white and cold , And a stranger hand must wrap him in the Shroud of snowy fold . — Hist he listens in the silence to a voice serene and clear , Not the fabled voice of Memnon making music on his ear ; ’Tis a voice that must reach us dwell we in whatever clime ’ Tis the v0 1ce of the Eternal calling to the child of Time I Stranger friend bend o ’er him softly— listen catch his parting breath Soon those lips will close in stillness , and be hushed for aye in death THE DYING ARTIST . 1 1 Soon thine ears will list no murmur but the gentle even ing breeze to Oh , bear this message , stranger , my home beyond the seas i — If by chance you meet my mother I was all her joy and pride her ver en tl Tell gently , y g y, how I lived , and how I died Tell her how I pined and sickened in this distant stranger land , — To look on one familiar face clasp one familiar hand . Tell her how I went in dreamings to that cottage ’ neath the hill , How I listened in my slumbers to that gently rippling rill Which goes babbling by her window to the forest ’s cooling shade , ’ Through the woodlands , o er the meadows , where in boyhood I have played . Tell her how I pined in anguish but to see her face once more , But to stand beneath the portal of the old vine- covered door Up that old familiar pathway nevermore my feet will roam n Oh , stra ger it is bitter thus to die from friends and home . 1 2 THE DYING ARTIST . Could I hear my father ’s blessing fondly falling on me now , Could I feel my mother ’s kisses gently pressed upon my brow — Even Azriel would be welcomed for I feel it woul d b e joy To be burie d in the churchyard where I worshipped when a boy . ’ O er the Spot where they will lay me , no loved brother ’ e er Shall weep , And no sister ’s tears shall moisten the lone grave where I must sleep No loved one will plant a willow that its leaves may ’ o er me wave , And no hand will Scatter garlands on the lonely new made grave .