THE DEAD EAGLE.

No more through the regions of glorious day,
Shall thy wings waft thee proudly—­oh proudly away—­
No more shall thy scream thrill the spirit that heard,
And saw thee, high mounting, O proud, mighty bird: 
For thy form lies with beasts on the filth of the plain,
And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

How strong was thy wing, and how fierce was thine eye—­
Which vanquished the storm—­and the sun throned on high—­
How far was thy flight mid thy path through the blue,
As thou sankest away from our wandering view;—­
But thy form rottens now with the beasts of the plain,
And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

We will mourn, we will mourn for thee, proud bird of heaven,
Whose loftiest walks to thy footsteps were given;
For thy form rots with beasts on the reed-sighing plain,
And it never shall soar from that slumber again.

LAMENT.

My soul is sad—­oh! dark to-night,
  ’Tis wrapt in midnight’s gloom;
Wild minstrel! seize thy harp and sing,
  As o’er the victor tomb.

For thoughts, more beautiful than dreams,
  Within my soul have died,
As fade away the glorious tints
  From heaven, at even-tide.

Wild minstrel! seize thy harp, I pray,
  And let a dirge arise
In frantic woe—­then faintly die
  Amid the nightwind’s sighs.

The saddest—­deepest—­wildest strain
  Should wail such visions o’er;
Within the mournful Past entombed,
  To be awaked no more.

OH, LOVE!  THE DEW LIES ON THE FLOWER.

Oh, love! the dew lies on the flower,
  And the stars gleam on the sea;
It is the charm’d, the silent hour,
  When I should roam with thee. 
The day dies out within the West,
  The shadows gather near;
And now sweet fancies fill my breast,
  And thou art strangely dear.

Behold! as yonder heavenly moon,
  Breaks through the dark-blue sky,
And through night’s deepest, stillest noon,
  That brightness will supply—­
Thy smile thus sheds its heavenly light
  Athwart life’s deepest gloom,—­
Thus brightly gilds the spirit’s night
  Its gentle beams illume.

RED ROSE.

Sweet rose! ere Ellen gathered thee
  From off thy parent stem,
With hope to rival her sweet cheek,
  Thou wast a floral gem. 
But when I think her snow-white hands,
  Did pluck thee, rose! for me,
The brightest gems of earth or sky,
  Are naught compared with thee. 
How fondly even for hours I gaze
  Upon thy charms so rare,
Thy tint of richest, purest red,
  Thy fragrant petals fair. 
Sweet rose! my Ellen’s pledge of love,
  Thou fairest thing of earth,
Save darling Ellen’s angel self,—­
  Words cannot speak thy worth. 
To token faintly to her soul,
  How prized by me thou art,
My trembling hand has placed thee here
  Beside my throbbing heart.