Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
         Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
     Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
         Of poets, by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too. Its letters, although naturally lying
         Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—
     Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do. 1846. [To discover the names in this and the following poem read the first
      letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
      second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth
      and so on to the end.] AN ENIGMA


     “Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce,
         “Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once
         As easily as through a Naples bonnet—
         Trash of all trash!—how _can_ a lady don it? Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—
     Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
         Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.”
      And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arrant
     Bubbles—ephemeral and _so_ transparent—
         But _this_ is, now,—you may depend upon it—
     Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint
     Of the dear names that lie concealed within ‘t. 1847. TO MY MOTHER

     Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
         The angels, whispering to one another,
     Can find, among their burning terms of love,
         None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
      Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
         You who are more than mother unto me,
     And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
         In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. My mother—my own mother, who died early,
         Was but the mother of myself; but you
     Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
         And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
     By that infinity with which my wife
         Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. 1849. [The above was addressed to the poet’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm—Ed.] FOR ANNIE


     Thank Heaven! the crisis—
         The danger is past,
     And the lingering illness
         Is over at last—
     And the fever called “Living”
          Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know
         I am shorn of my strength,
     And no muscle I move
         As I lie at full length—
     But no matter!—I feel
         I am better at length. And I rest so composedly,
         Now, in my bed,
     That any beholder
         Might fancy me dead—
     Might start at beholding me,
         Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning,
         The sighing and sobbing,
     Are quieted now,
         With that horrible throbbing
     At heart:—ah, that horrible,
         Horrible throbbing! The sickness—the nausea—
         The pitiless pain—
     Have ceased, with the fever
         That maddened my brain—
     With the fever called “Living”
          That burned in my brain. And oh! of all tortures
         _That_ torture the worst
     Has abated—the terrible
         Torture of thirst
     For the naphthaline river
         Of Passion accurst:—
     I have drank of a water
         That quenches all thirst:—
     Of a water that flows,
         With a lullaby sound,
     From a spring but a very few
         Feet under ground—
     From a cavern not very far
         Down under ground. And ah! let it never
         Be foolishly said
     That my room it is gloomy
         And narrow my bed;
     For man never slept
         In a different bed—
     And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
         In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit
         Here blandly reposes,
     Forgetting, or never
         Regretting its roses—
     Its old agitations
         Of myrtles and roses:
     For now, while so quietly
         Lying, it fancies
     A holier odor
         About it, of pansies—
     A rosemary odor,
         Commingled with pansies—
     With rue and the beautiful
         Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily,
         Bathing in many
     A dream of the truth
         And the beauty of Annie—
     Drowned in a bath
         Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me,
         She fondly caressed,
     And then I fell gently
         To sleep on her breast—
     Deeply to sleep
         From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished,
         She covered me warm,
     And she prayed to the angels
         To keep me from harm—
     To the queen of the angels
         To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly,
         Now in my bed,
     (Knowing her love)
         That you fancy me dead—
     And I rest so contentedly,
         Now in my bed,
     (With her love at my breast)
         That you fancy me dead—
     That you shudder to look at me,
         Thinking me dead:—
     But my heart it is brighter
         Than all of the many
     Stars in the sky,
         For it sparkles with Annie—
     It glows with the light
         Of the love of my Annie—
     With the thought of the light
         Of the eyes of my Annie. 1849. TO F——. Beloved! amid the earnest woes
         That crowd around my earthly path—
     (Drear path, alas! where grows
     Not even one lonely rose)—
         My soul at least a solace hath
     In dreams of thee, and therein knows
     An Eden of bland repose. And thus thy memory is to me
         Like some enchanted far-off isle
     In some tumultuous sea—
     Some ocean throbbing far and free
         With storms—but where meanwhile
     Serenest skies continually
         Just o’er that one bright island smile. 1845. TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD


     Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart
         From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art,
         Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways,
         Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
     Shall be an endless theme of praise,
         And love—a simple duty. 1845. ELDORADO. Gaily bedight,
         A gallant knight,
     In sunshine and in shadow,
         Had journeyed long,
         Singing a song,
     In search of Eldorado. But he grew old—
         This knight so bold—
     And o’er his heart a shadow
         Fell, as he found
         No spot of ground
     That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength
         Failed him at length,
     He met a pilgrim shadow—
         “Shadow,” said he,
         “Where can it be—
     This land of Eldorado?”
         “Over the Mountains
         Of the Moon,
     Down the Valley of the Shadow,
         Ride, boldly ride,”
         The shade replied,—
     “If you seek for Eldorado!”

      1849. EULALIE
                          I  DWELT alone
                         In a world of moan,
             And my soul was a stagnant tide,
     Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—
     Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.