By Edward Coate Pinkney (1802 - 1828)

A Health

I FILL this cup to one made up   Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex   The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements   And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air,   ’T is less of earth than heaven.   Her every tone is music’s own,   Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody   Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they,   And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee   Forth issue from the rose.   Affections are as thoughts to her,   The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy,   The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft,   So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,—   The idol of past years!   Of her bright face one glance will trace   A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts   A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her,   So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh   Will not be life’s, but hers.   I fill this cup to one made up   Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex   The seeming paragon— Her health! and would on earth there stood   Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry,   And weariness a name.

A 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.

Song

WE break the glass, whose sacred wine   To some beloved health we drain, Lest future pledges, less divine,   Should e’er the hallowed toy profane; And thus I broke a heart that poured   Its tide of feelings out for thee, In draught, by after-times deplored,   Yet dear to memory.   But still the old, impassioned ways   And habits of my mind remain, And still unhappy light displays   Thine image chambered in my brain, And still it looks as when the hours   Went by like flights of singing birds, Or that soft chain of spoken flowers   And airy gems,—thy words.

Votive 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   Didst love in living years, Sits desolate beside it now,   And fall these heavy tears.

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