When I remark her golden hair Swoon on her glorious shoulders, I marvel not that sight so rare Doth ravish all beholders; For summon hence all pretty girls Renowned for beauteous tresses, And you shall find among their curls There's none so fair as Jessie's.

And Jessie's eyes are, oh, so blue And full of sweet revealings-- They seem to look you through and through And read your inmost feelings; Nor black emits such ardent fires, Nor brown such truth expresses-- Admit it, all ye gallant squires-- There are no eyes like Jessie's.

Her voice (like liquid beams that roll From moonland to the river) Steals subtly to the raptured soul, Therein to lie and quiver; Or falls upon the grateful ear With chaste and warm caresses-- Ah, all concede the truth (who hear): There's no such voice as Jessie's.

Of other charms she hath such store All rivalry excelling, Though I used adjectives galore, They'd fail me in the telling; But now discretion stays my hand-- Adieu, eyes, voice, and tresses. Of all the husbands in the land There's none so fierce as Jessie's.

TO EMMA ABBOTT

There--let thy hands be folded Awhile in sleep's repose; The patient hands that wearied not, But earnestly and nobly wrought In charity and faith; And let thy dear eyes close-- The eyes that looked alway to God, Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod Of sorrow; Fold thou thy hands and eyes For just a little while, And with a smile Dream of the morrow.

And, O white voiceless flower, The dream which thou shalt dream Should be a glimpse of heavenly things, For yonder like a seraph sings The sweetness of a life With faith alway its theme; While speedeth from those realms above The messenger of that dear love That healeth sorrow. So sleep a little while, For thou shalt wake and sing Before thy King When cometh the morrow.

THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN

Good editor Dana--God bless him, we say-- Will soon be afloat on the main, Will be steaming away Through the mist and the spray To the sensuous climate of Spain.

Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land Which is famed for its soap and its Moor, For, as we understand, The scenery is grand Though the system of railways is poor.

For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes, And the ladies, we're told, Are a joy to behold As they twine in their lissome fandangoes.

What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar And murmur a passionate strain; Oh, fairer by far Than those ravishments are The castles abounding in Spain.

These castles are built as the builder may list-- They are sometimes of marble or stone, But they mostly consist Of east wind and mist With an ivy of froth overgrown.

A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise On a futile foundation of hope, And its glories shall blaze In the somnolent haze Of the mythical lake del y Soap.

The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air And the visions of Dreamland obtain, And the song of "World's Fair" Shall be heard everywhere Through that beautiful castle in Spain.

LOVE SONG--HEINE

Many a beauteous flower doth spring From the tears that flood my eyes, And the nightingale doth sing In the burthen of my sighs.