On a picture

When Summer o'er her native hills
A veil of beauty spread,
She sat and watched her gentle fold,
And twined her flaxen thread.

The mountain daisies kissed her feet,
The moss sprung greenest there;
The breath of Summer fanned her cheek,
And tossed her wavy hair.

The heather and the yellow gorse
Bloomed over hill and wold,
And clothed them in a royal robe
Of purple and of gold.

There rose the sky-lark's gushing song;
There hummed the laboring bee;
And merrily the mountain stream
Ran singing to the sea.

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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To a child

I love to look on that eye of blue,
For tears have not yet worn a channel through;
And the few bright summers since thy birth,
Have left thee a stranger still on earth.

A stranger -- and all, to thine untaught eyes,
Is bright with the hues of paradise.
The rapture of being thrills thy frame,
And sorrow thou know'st not even by name.

Thy innocent thoughts, unswayed by art,
Gush from the depths of thy guileless heart;
Like a harp when the wandering breezes sigh,
Answering each touch with melody.

I would, sweet one, I might wish for thee,
That a stranger thus thou shouldst ever be;
That time might not lift the enchanted veil,
Nor breathe in thine ear his mournful tale.

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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Liberty to Ireland

A nation's birthday breaks in glory;
Songs from her hills and valleys rise,
And myriad hearts thrill to the story
Of Freedom's wars and victories.
When God's right arm alone was o'er her,
And in his name the patriot band,
With sacred blood baptized the land,
And England's Lion crouched before her,
Sons of the Emerald Isle!
She bids you rend the chain,
And tell the haughty ocean queen
Ye, too, are free-born men.

Long had the world looked on in sorrow
As Erin's sunburst set in night.
Joy, joy! there breaks a glorious morrow;
Behold a beam of morning light!
A ray of hope, her night redeeming!
And she greets it, though there lower
England's scaffold, England's tower;

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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Anna

For thee, the Sibyl in the future sees
A lovely cottage hidden by the trees;---
Round its white porch are trained the clustering vines;
Beneath its roof perpetual summer shines---
The heart's sweet summer that shall take its dyes
From the clear sunshine of thine azure eyes.
The nightingale shall sing thee to thy dreams;
The lark shall wake thee with morn's earliest beams;
The flocks and herds shall own thy gentle care;
All living things thy kind regard shall share.
And as thou wanderest midst the lovely scene,
The flowers shall claim thee for their fairy queen.
And here, where Nature wears her loveliest spell,
Shalt thou, her fairest work, serenely dwell;
Far from the world's "ignoble strife" and care,
With some loved spirit "for thy minister,"
Thy life like some fair stream shall glide away,
And thou shalt sleep, to wake in the Eternal Day.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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On a picture of Harvey Birch

I know not if thy noble worth
My country's annals claim,
For in her brief, bright history
I have not read thy name.

I know not if thou e'er didst live;
Save in the vivid thought
Of him who chronicled thy life,
With silent suffering fraught.

Yet, in thy history I see
Full many a great soul's lot;
Who joins that martyr-army's ranks,
That the world knoweth not;---

Who cannot weep "melodious tears,"
For fame or sympathy;
But who, in silence, bear their doom,
To suffer and to die;---

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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Juliette's twins

Dear Catherine, and David too,
How very sweet it was of you
To telegraph that you were here,
New-lighted on this lower sphere.
That though unlooked for, both had come,
To bring into the earthly home
The light and joy of Paradise
That shine from your four infant eyes.

Your excellent and learned papa,
Your beautiful and sweet mama,
Must be most charmed to call you theirs;
Although you bring new fears and cares.
Perhaps at night you'll cry and roar,
And they must wake, and walk the floor.
You'll have the measles and the mumps,
The whooping-cough, the rash, the dumps.

And all those things, so troublesome,
That mortal children suffer from.

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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Fitz-Greene Halleck

I see the sons of genius rise
The nobles of our land,
And foremost in the gathering ranks
I see the poet-band.
That priesthood of the Beautiful
To whom alone 't is given
To lift our spirits from the dust,
Back to their native heaven.
But there is one among the throng
Not passed his manhood's prime,
The laurel-wreath upon his brow
Has greener grown with time;
And in his eye yet glows the light
Of the celestial fire,
But cast beside him on the earth
Is his neglected lyre.
The lyre whose high heroic notes
A thousand hearts have stirred
Lies mute---the skilful hand no more
Awakes one slumbering chord.

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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Viva Italia!

Italia, in thy bleeding heart
I thought e'en hope was dead;
That from thy scarred and prostrate form
The spark of life had fled.

I thought, as memory's sunset glow
Its radiance o'er thee cast,
That all thy glory and thy fame
Were buried in the past.

Twice Mistress of the world, I thought
Thy star had set in gloom;
That all thy shrines and monuments
Were but thy spirit's tomb---

The mausoleum of the world,
Where Art her spoils might keep;
Where pilgrims from all shrines might come,
To wonder and to weep.

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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
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To a silent poet

I see the sons of Genius rise
The nobles of our land;
And foremost in the gathering ranks
I see the poet band.

That Priesthood of the beautiful,
To whom alone 'tis given
To lift our spirits from the dust,
Back to their native heaven.

But there is one amid the throng,
Not past his manhood's prime;
The laurel wreath upon his brow,
Has greener grown with time.

And in his eye yet glows the light
Of the celestial fire;
But cast beside him, on the earth,
Is his neglected lyre.

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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To ---- VI

The brilliant west is glowing,
With sunset's farewell ray;
The silver waves are flowing,
On to the distant sea;

The pale bright stars are keeping
Their watch through night's still hours;
The dews in joy are weeping
Above the new-born flowers;

The city's hum is dying
Upon the perfumed breeze,
That wanders, softly sighing,
Among the flower-crowned trees.

But my vagrant thoughts are roaming
To loved ones far away;
I heed not twilight's coming,
Nor flowers, nor winds at play.

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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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