Andrew Jackson Downing: Verses about Love

Young Love was such a torment
I hid from him my face,
And scorned, and drove him from me
In bitter, deep disgrace.
He fled my primrose garden,
His heart was wounded sore-
I heard him moan, in undertone:
'I will return no more!'

But Love his vow repented,
And came, reluctant back;
I think somebody led him
Along the primrose track;
His face was at my lattice,
His cheek was white and thin;
He spoke in such a pleading way
I could but let him in.

Now Love is such a comfort
I would not have him go
For all the shining treasures
That Fortune can bestow.
And, since his sweet returning,
I bless, with grateful sense,
The day he came, the way he came,
The hand that led him hence.

When life burns to ashes that hold but an ember-
A fast-fading spark of their olden-time glow-
The head may forget, but the heart will remember
The deeper delights of the days long ago.
A mother's devotion, unfailing, unbounded,
Her loving caresses, her smiles and her tears;
A sister's affection no plummet hath sounded,
No tempest hath ruffled in all the long years.

Another- a vision of beauty and splendor
That Time and his shadows can never eclipse-
Comes back in the gloaming, with eyes soft and tender,
And thrills you again with the touch of her lips.
The world is enchanted, a wonderful palace,
Dream-built and celestial, inviting repose;
You drink the rich draught of a nectar-brimmed chalice,
And life is as fragrant and sweet as the rose.

It may be that still in your memory lingers
A child's artless prattle, with love in its tone,
The sweet pressure felt of a baby's soft fingers-
White, clinging and dimpled- entwined with your own.
Nor darkness, nor slumber, effaces the token
That Sorrow, unbidden, once came as your guest;
That voice has been hushed into silence unbroken-
Those hands now are folded in infinite rest.

Your steps may be slow, and your locks may be hoary-
Approaching the end of your pilgrimage here;
And yet, the recital of one little story,
Like rain in the desert, will freshen and cheer.
No matter what treasures, from May to December-
What favors of fortune have come at your call-
The head may forget, but the heart will remember
That Love was the jewel outshining them all!

For the anniversary of the birthday of Robert Burns- Jan. 25, 1894.
I know not in what land thy children, O Scotland,
Remember not proudly the place of their birth;
Brave sons and fair daughters, though over the waters
They wander afar to the ends of the earth!

Thy fame and thy glory, in ballad and story,
Are sung and rehearsed, where a Scottish heart beats;
And that flower, good humor, is still a free bloomer
Whenever, wherever a Scottish clan meets.

And here's a 'clan-meeting!' we tender our greeting;
We welcome you all in the broad-prairied west-
Scotch fathers and mothers, lads, lassies- your brothers
And cousins are we, and we'll give you our best!

Today is Rob's birthday; we'll make it a mirthday
Far into the night when the stars are above;
With voices clear-ringing, his sweetest songs singing-
The bard of 'Auld Scotia,' the poet we love!

Through him, Caledonia, all peoples have known ye-
Through him and the heroes who brighten your fame;
And ever a pressing and lusty 'Scotch blessing'
Shall follow the craven who slanders your name!

O, brave northern nation! you honor each station
In life through your sons, be it humble, or great;
You send us good teachers, sound lawyers and preachers,
And statesmen alive to the weal of the state!

In science and letters, we're greatly your debtors;
In morals, philosophy, learning and art,
Scotch pluck and persistence have bettered existence,
And broadened the pathway, or furnished the chart!

When 'Uncle Sam' wanted a hero undaunted,
On victory's summit his standard to plant,
A Scot of the border, some chieftan, or warder,
Leaped forth in the blood of the valorous Grant!

And aye when the rattle, and tumult of battle
Are heard in the land- with a soul undismayed-
Will Sandy be in it, to stay, and to win it-
In war, or in politics, law, love or trade!

I saw a pretty bluebird, yesterday,
Rocking itself upon a budding spray-
The while it fluted forth a tender song
That brought a promise of sunshiny days.

It is the loveliest little bird that comes
In early spring-time to our northern homes.
We note its presence, bid it welcome here,
Before the crocus its green calyx parts
To lead the smiling sisterhood of flowers
In fair procession through the summer land.
The sweet-voiced warbler wears a coat that mocks
The fair, fringed gentian in its azure hue,
Or the blue larkspur.

Oftentimes a bar
Of music or the drowsy hum of bees
In an old orchard, or the faintest scent
Of a familiar blossom, leads us back
Along the track of years, to sights and sounds
Of long ago. So, ever, when I hear
The bluebird caroling its perfect song-
Whose harshest note breathes only love and peace-
And when I mark its brilliant uniform-
This midget bird, so small that it might be
Imprisoned in a lady's lily hand-
I am reminded of the battle years
When men, full-armed, and wearing suits of blue,
Marched to the music of the fife and drum
In strong battalions in a southern land.
And all the pomp and blazonry of war-
Guidons and banners tossing in the breeze,
Sabers and muskets glinting in the sun,
Carriage and caisson rumbling o'er the stones,
The midnight vigil of the lone vidette,
The shock and roar of battle, and the shouts
Of the victorious army when the fight
Was done; the aftermath of sorrows deep-
The cries and moans of wounded, dying men,
The hurried burial of the dead at night,
The broken lives in many homes, the hearths
Made desolate- all these come back to me,
As I beheld and knew them once; and then,
In sad reflection to myself I sigh:
What weak, inglorious fools we mortals are
That war must be, or any need of war.

And yet, the better day is coming when
The teachings of the lowly Nazarene
Shall be the rule of nations- as of men;
The sword and bayonet shall be preserved,
By the fair children of a nobler race,
As relics only, of a barbarous past
When men were crazed, and shed each other's blood.
All souls shall be in touch and harmony
With Nature, and her higher, holier laws;
And all the world, from farthest sea to sea,
Shall know a sweet, idyllic peace and rest,
Unmarred by strife, or any harsher sounds
Than her harmonious voices- ocean waves,
Breaking in rhythmic beat upon the shore;
The murmurous solo of the valley brook-
The wind's wild monody amid the pines-
The thrush's whistle, and the bluebird's song.