: Troubled Waters by Raine William MacLeod - Fiction; Western stories

@FreeBooksThu 08 Jun, 2023

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It is requested that those who may have by them any un-published Poems, Essays, or other articles appearing to coincide with the views in which this Periodical is established, and who may feel desirous of contributing such papers--will forward them, for the approval of the Editor, to the Office of publication. It may be relied upon that the most sincere attention will be paid to the examination of all manuscripts, whether they be eventually accepted or declined.

My Beautiful Lady

I love my lady; she is very fair; Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair; Her spirit sits aloof, and high, Altho' it looks thro' her soft eye Sweetly and tenderly.

As a young forest, when the wind drives thro', My life is stirred when she breaks on my view. Altho' her beauty has such power, Her soul is like the simple flower Trembling beneath a shower.

As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings, The bloom around her fancied presence flings, I feast and wile her absence, by Pressing her choice hand passionately-- Imagining her sigh.

My lady's voice, altho' so very mild, Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child; My lady's touch, however slight, Moves all my senses with its might, Like to a sudden fright.

A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips,-- In vigilance, not more intense Than I; when her word's gentle sense Makes full-eyed my suspense.

Her mention of a thing--august or poor, Makes it seem nobler than it was before: As where the sun strikes, life will gush, And what is pale receive a flush, Rich hues--a richer blush.

My lady's name, if I hear strangers use,-- Not meaning her--seems like a lax misuse. I love none by my lady's name; Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same, So blank, so very tame.

Whene'er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred; As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird At each pant shows some fiery hue, Burns gold, intensest green or blue: The same, yet ever new.

What time she walketh under flowering May, I am quite sure the scented blossoms say, "O lady with the sunlit hair! "Stay, and drink our odorous air-- "The incense that we bear:

"Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade; "Being near you, our sweetness might not fade." If trees could be broken-hearted, I am sure that the green sap smarted, When my lady parted.

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