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Mary Eliza Perine Tucker Lambert

To Fannie

Write to thine eyes? Why, my poor pen
Quails at the unequal task;
I fear you don't appreciate
The mighty boon you ask.
Thine eyes, I know, oh! beautiful!
True poets would inspire;
But, dear, you should remember, that
I've not a poet's fire.
But still at thy request I call
My sleeping muse to me,
To write a sonnet to thine eyes-
Would it were worthy thee!
Tender and loving, soft and pure,
They pierce the heart of man;
And with the aid of Cupid's darts,
Maim all the hearts they can.
Bright as the stars in yonder sky,
They shine for all on earth:
So sad in sorrow, glad in joy,
And sparkling in their mirth.

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Burial Of A Fairy Queen

On a verdant summer islet
I beheld a wondrous scene,
In a trance of dreamy waking-
Burial of a Fairy Queen!
First I heard some small pipes playing,
Like faint night-winds on the breeze,
Or the sound of distant rain-drops,
As they fall among the trees.
Floating softly o'er the waters,
And from every bell of foam,
The fairy anthem echoed sweetly,
Sad as thoughts of distant home.
Next the sound, as if of footsteps,
O'er the grass plot mov'd along;
And distinctly came the accents
Of the solemn funeral song.
Like the melting of the dew-drops,
Without words of grief or death,
Was the soul-enthralling music,
Scarcely louder than a breath.

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The First Grey Hair

NO, let it stay. It speaks but truth:
My Autumn's day is dawning.
The dream is past; sweet dream of youth.
Hair, I accept thy warning.
With mournful thought, my spirit swells,
At the wild chime of memory bells.

Why will we in the present time,
Of by-gone days be dreaming?
Say, why throughout the storm sublime,
Is lightning ever gleaming?
Ah! there is naught on earth that quells
The chiming of sad memory bells.

Hope, garlands fair of future bliss,
With Fancy's pearls is weaving;
Alas! we find in world like this,
That Hope too is deceiving,
As on the past, our full heart dwells,
At your sad chiming, memory bells.

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