78 SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. [1820-30. Full many a bark its silver path Is tracing o'er thy tide ; And li.st, the sound of song and laugh Floats onward, where they glide. They're from light hearts, those sounds so gay, "VVliOse home and hopes are here, Cut one, whose home is far away, Their music fails to cheer. The woods of Indiana frown Along the distant shore. And send their deep, black shadows down Upon the glassy floor ; ]Iany a tree is blooming there — Wild-flowers o'erspread the ground. And thousand vines of foliage rare The trunks are wreath'd around. But though the summer robe is gay On every hill and tree, The gray woods rising far away, Are fairer still to me. Yon cloudless moon to-night looks down Upon no lovelier sight. Than the river winding proudly on — Yet beautiful, in might ; Onward still to the mighty west, Where the prairie wastes unfold. Where the Indian chieftan went to rest As his last war-signal rolled. No — ^never arched the blue skies o'er A wave more fair and free — But the stream around my mother's door Is dearer far to me. TO THE ONCE LOVED. And thou canst wear a brow of mirth. The gayest still at ];)leasure's shrine-. And thou can'st smile on all the earth, And make its light and music thine ! The winds that sweep the clear blue sea. Bring perfumes from the glorious land, Where thou art still the gay, the free, Where all thy vows were traced on sand. The stars are burning brightly yet Above the wood, whose waving boughs Were harps, wherein the night winds met To blend their music with those vows. Thou hast a heart which yet will wake, When all this splendid dream is o'er. Which yet will sadly sigh to make Its home on the deserted shore. But the liglit bark that's wandered fast On ocean's path, when skies were fair, In vain would turn when clouds o'ercast — Alone it meets the tempest there. And for a thing so young, so frail, And yet so beautiful as thou, 'Twould need but one chill autumn gale To waste the wild flowers on thy brow. I met thee once within the hall, The festal hall, where music flows. And crowds were thronging at the call, As winds v/ait on a summer rose. Still didst thou seem the soul of all That's holiest, in thought, on eai'th, Like dreams we have when moonbeams fall Through summer leaves upon the earth. E'en then, in all thy beauty's power, I watch'd thy brilliant bloom depart ; Thy thoughts were on a vanish'd hour — Thine eye on him who read thy heart ! I would not have that fetter'd heai't. For all thy beauty in its spring ! I would not have thy soul of art To be, like ee, a follow'd thing ! Yet do I grieve to think that thou — So deeply dear in moments fled, Hast twin'd a wreath aroimd thy brow, Whose weight will soon be that of lead ; And, like the coral chaplet bound Upon the Christian maiden's brow, Shedding its poisonous breath around, Bid all that's fair beneath it bow.
