I follow up the sacred aisle,

Thy light step on the Sabbath day,
And, as perhaps thou pray'st the while,
My light thoughts pass away!

As swells in air the holy hymn,

My breath comes quick, my eyes are dim,
And through my tears I pray!

I do not think my heart is stone;
But, while for heaven it beats alone,"
In heaven would willing stay,
One rustle of thy snow-white gown
Sends all my thoughts astray!

The preaching dies upon my ear;

What is the better world-when thy dark eyes are here!

Yet pray! my years have been but few;
And many a wile the tempter weaves,

And many a saint the sinner grieves,
Ere Mercy brings him through!

But O, when Mercy sits serene,

And strives to bend to me,

Pray, that the cloud which comes between
May less resemble thee!

The world, that would my soul beguile,
Tints all its roses with thy smile!

In heaven 't were well to be!

But to desire that blesséd shore

O Lady! thy dark eyes must first have gone before!

PHILIP PENDLETON PENDLETON COOKE.

1816-1850.

FLORENCE VANE.

I LOVED thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream and early
Hath come again;

I renew, in my fond vision,

My heart's dear pain,
My hopes, and thy derision,
Florence Vane.

The ruin, lone and hoary,

The ruin old,

Where thou didst hark my story,

At even told;

That spot-the hues Elysian

Of sky and plain—

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;

Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest, wonder!
Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under,

Alas, the day!

And it boots not to remember

Thy disdain;

To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,

The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep;

May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

1809.

LA GRISETTE.

Ан, Clemence! when I saw thee last
Trip down the Rue de Seine,
And turning, when thy form had passed,
I said, "We meet again,"

I dreamed not in that idle glance
Thy latest image came,
And only left to memory's trance
A shadow and a name.

The few, strange words my lips had taught
Thy timid voice to speak;

Their gentler sighs, which often brought
Fresh roses to thy cheek;

The trailing of thy long, loose hair
Bent o'er my couch of pain,

All, all returned, more sweet, more fair;
O, had we met again!

I walked where saint and virgin keep
The vigil lights of Heaven,

I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
And sins to be forgiven;

I watched where Genevieve was laid,

I knelt by Mary's shrine,

Beside me low, soft voices prayed;

Alas! but where was thine?

And when the morning sun was bright,
When wind and wave were calm,
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,
The rose of Notre Dame,

I wandered through the haunts of men,
From Boulevard to Quai,

Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
The Pantheon's shadow lay.

In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
Nor dream what fates befall;
And long upon the stranger's shore
My voice on thee may call,

When years have clothed the line in moss
That tells thy name and days,

And withered, on thy simple cross,

The wreaths of Père-la-Chaise !