Serenade

LOOK out upon the stars, my love,

And shame them with thine eyes,

On which, than on the lights above,

There hang more destinies.

Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light;

Then, Lady, up,--look out, and be

A sister to the night!--

Sleep not!--thine image wakes for aye

Within my watching breast:

Sleep not!--from her soft sleep should fly,

Who robs all hearts of rest.

Nay, Lady, from thy slumbers break,

And make this darkness gay,

With looks, whose brightness well might make

Of darker nights a day.

Edward Coote Pinkney

The Widow's Song

I BURN no incense, hang no wreath,

On this, thine early tomb:

Such cannot cheer the place of death,

But only mock its gloom.

Here odorous smoke and breathing flower

No grateful influence shed:

They lose their perfume and their power,

When offered to the dead.

And if, as is the Afghaun's creed,

The spirit may return,

A disembodied sense to feed,

On fragrance, near its urn--

It is enough, that she, whom thou

Did'st love in living years,

Sits desolate beside it now,

And falls these heavy tears.

Edward Coote Pinkney

To . . . .

'TWAS eve; the broadly shining sun

Its long, celestial course, had run;

The twilight heaven, so soft and blue,

Met earth in tender interview,

Ev'n as the angel met of yore

His gifted mortal paramour,

Woman, a child of morning then,--

A spirit still,--compared with men.

Like happy islands of the sky,

The gleaming clouds reposed on high,

Each fixed sublime, deprived of motion,

A Delos to the airy ocean.

Upon the stirless shore no breeze

Shook the green drapery of the trees,

Or, rebel to tranquillity,

Awoke a ripple on the sea.

Nor, in a more tumultuous sound,

Were the world's aubible breathings drowned;

The low strange hum of herbage growing,

The voice of hidden waters flowing,

Made songs of nature, which the ear

Could scarcely be pronounced to hear;

But noise had furled its subtle wings,

And moved not through material things,

All which lay calm as they had been

Parts of the painter's mimic scene.

'Twas eve; my thoughts belong to thee,

Thou shape of separate memory!

When, like a stream to lands of flame,

Unto my mind a vision came.

Methought, from human haunts and strife

Remote, we lived a loving life;

Our wedded spirits seemed to blend

In harmony too sweet to end,

Such concord as the echoes cherish

Fondly, but leave at length to perish.

Wet rain-stars are thy lucid eyes,

The Hyades of earthly skies,

But then upon my heart they shone,

As shines on snow the fervid sun.

And fast went by those moments bright,

Like meteors shooting through the night:

But faster fleeted the wild dream,

That clothed them with their transient beam.

Yet love can years to days condense,

And long appeared that life intense;

It was,--to give a better measure

Than time,--a century of pleasure.

Edward Coote Pinkney

On Parting

ALAS! our pleasant moments fly

On rapid wings away,

While those recorded with a sigh,

Mock us by long delay.

Time,--envious time,--loves not to be

In company with mirth,

But makes malignant pause to see

The work of pain on earth.

Edward Coote Pinkney