Anne Charlotte Lynch Botta Poems

Like the ancient Grecian marbles,
Is his soul with beauty fraught,
And as polished and enduring
Is the sculpture of his thought.
...

The wail of France comes o'er the sea, -
She mourns for thee, departed chief;
And we, the children of the Free,
Re-echo back the notes of grief.
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A beauty like young womanhood's
Upon the green earth lies,
And June's sweet smile hath waked again
All summer's harmonies.
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Where the dark primeval forests
Rise against the western sky
And 'the Father of the Waters'
In his strength goes rushing by:
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The mountain lake, o'ershadowed by the hills,
May still gaze heavenward on the evening star,
Whose distant light its dark recesses fills,
Though boundless distance must divide them far;
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Deal kindly with those speechless ones,
That throng our gladsome earth;
Say not the bounteous gift of life
Alone is nothing worth.
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Maiden of the lofty brow,
Mournful eye and cheek of snow;
Thou whose gaze is ever cast
On the pageant of the Past;
Tell me what thou seest there;
Tell me what its voices bear.
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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.
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The Paint-King, envious of his cunning art,
To him the tinted palette would not lend;
So has he dipped the pencil in his heart,
And with his light and shade its hues still blend.
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As once I dreamed, methought I strayed
Within a snow-clad mountain's shade;
From whose far height the silence bore
One charméd word, 'Excelsior!'
...