EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF HOWARD PINCKNEY, ETC.

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THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS.

’Twas on the outskirts of a wood—

A wood of tall and aged trees,

That gave a charm to solitude,

A murmur to the breeze;

’Twas when frequent falls the leaf,

And we begin to say that brief

And briefer grows the day;

When, far away, the evening sky

Looks sad and sober to the eye;

When darker grows the rivulet,

Where, in some tiny eddy’s play,

The fallen leaves so fitful fret,

Like Hope, when we would hold it yet,

And it would fain be far away.

How beautiful the beechen tree!

A beechen tree of giant mould,

Whose roots did many a rock unfold.

Entwining them, as you might see:

For, branching from the parent stem,

A velvet moss just covered them;

They sought the nurture of the brook

That from its shade a deep green took,

And murmur’d like the lullaby

Of cradle-watchers, when they look

Upon the infant’s closing eye.

Forth stepping like the timid deer,

And hearing her own step with fear,

On came a gentle maid;

She crosses o’er the rivulet:

Her silken slipper is not wet—

Why should she be afraid?

She seems spell-bound, and yet seems not;

If fearful thus, why seek the spot?

Why stops she by the tree?

We have volition where to go,

And we may wander to and fro,

Yet, we may not be free—

For Love, though all unseen his chain,

Will draw us over land and main;

And though we meet as far between

As winter wild from summer green,

Yet Love, like Heaven, will be above

The hearts that truly vow to love.

With step, e’en as the maiden’s, light,

But not a step that e’er knew fright,

Comes one with love-lit look;

He clasps her with his arms around,

As is yon water lily bound

By the encircling brook,

And as it palely droops to hear

The music of the whispering water,

She listens with a charmed fear,

Bound by the spell which there has brought her

The while her fair brow bends and beams

Like that pale flower that loves the streams.

How to his heart he holds the flower!

“O! ever blessed be the hour

Which brings thee, Helen, to my side.

Our friends would frown, I know, my bird

If but our slightest word were heard;

But, oh! thou yet wilt be my bride—

For though we meet here but to part,

’Tis not with a divided heart;

Thou wert the soonest here to-day,

But no neglect kept me away;

I know this hour—I know no more—

The rest are but to tell it o’er.”

“I came the sooner, love,” said she,

With maidenly simplicity—

“Because, before the sun goes down,

Stern darkness in the woods will frown;

And though I reach my home while yet

The red clouds linger in the west,

Methinks dark forms the woods beset;

They trouble me with sad unrest;

How, yester-eve, the big trees moaned!

Methought for me they sighed and groaned:

The screech-owl screeched above my path—

It seemed to haunt me with its wrath:

And all the gentler birds have flown—

The loneliness is all my own!”

“Love, this is autumn now, you know;

To other lands the wild birds go—

They only rest in summer bower,

And only stay while lasts the flower;

But, Helen, not thus let it be

With all this love that binds us now;

In winter, bare will be the tree,

No bird will sing upon the bough—

But see where I have taught the beech,

If either here should roam alone,

Long after this blest hour has flown,

The vows of both to tell to each:

Our names I’ve circled with a heart,

As thus I hold thee to my own,

And thus, though we afar may part

As ever yet did fond ones sever,

The love that binds us holds forever.”

This beech tree was their trysting-place!

There, oft in summer’s fragrant eve,

Just when the red sun took his leave—

When the coy moon, with half hid face,

Peeped o’er the eastern hills afar,

With here and there a radiant star;

When twilight came, with sober mien,

And silence brooded o’er the scene—

Thither the maid would often stray,

Humming, may be, a laughing lay,

That told true love was all untrue,

And made of nothing great ado;

She’d have them think, if she were heard,

She scorned the very love she sought,

And that she sung like careless bird—

A maiden who was free in thought:

Who roamed, and, roaming, trolled a glee,

Because she wanted company.

Upon this eve they met to part

Till spring again should clothe the vine;

They pledged their faith with beating heart,

And made the beechen tree their shrine;

He watched her white dress, glimmering bright

Thro’ the dark woods: “Good night! good night!”