There be none of Beauty’s daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me; When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean’s pausing, The waves lie still & gleaming, And the lull’d winds seem dreaming. And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o’er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant’s asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer’

Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 2, August 1842. Sultana! Sultana! thy watch is in vain— With the sun that is setting in gloom o’er the main The empire from Selim is passing away: Ho! up with Mustapha! Death waits on delay! The morning that broke on the spires of SallesSaw his ships ride triumphant upon the blue sea; But the foam of the waves, ere the noon, was made red With the blood of the wounded, the dying and dead. They came from the mountains, as sand on the gale That s

Also known as “Weeping Mary” or “Mary at the Tomb, based on John 20:11–16. Mary to the Saviour’s tomb, Hastened at the early dawn, Spice she brought & sweet perfume; But the Lord she loved was gone. Lingering, for awhile she stood, Filled with sorrow and surprise; Trembling, while a crystal flood, Issued from her weeping eyes. But her sorrows quickly fled, When she heard the Saviour’s voice; Christ has risen from the dead, Now he bids her heart rejoice. What a change his love

Proud stream! the birchen barks that wont of old, From cove to cove to shoot athwart thy tide; The quivered nations eloquent and bold, Whose simple fare thy shores & depths supplied, Are passed away; and men of other mould Now o’er thy bosom their winged fabrics guide, All white with sails thy keel-thronged waters flee Through one rich lapse of plenty to the sea. Beauty and majesty on either hand Have shored thy waters with their common realm; Here pasture, grove, and harvest

from his 1834 novel The Last Days of Pompeii Buy my flowers—O buy, I pray! The blind girl comes from afar; If the earth be as fair as I hear them say, These flowers her children are! Do they her beauty keep? They are fresh from her lap, I know, For I caught them fast asleepIn her arms an hour ago, With the air which is her breath— Her soft and delicate breath— Over them murmuring low!— Ye have a world of light, Where love in the loved rejoices; But the blind girl's home is th