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Updated: May 31, 2025
Employment too, thy loving neighbor, Who quells the bosom's rising storms; Who ne'er grows weary of her labor, And ne'er destroys, though slow she forms; Who, though but grains of sand she places To swell eternity sublime, Yet minutes, days, ay! years effaces From the dread reckoning kept by Time!
They were looks that cannot be described; but they were felt piercing to the bosom's deepest core.
For then a circling world was bursting My bosom's narrow prison-cell, To enter into being thirsting, In deed, word, shape, and sound as well. This world, how wondrous great I deemed it, Ere yet its blossoms could unfold! When open, oh, how little seemed it! That little, oh, how mean and cold!
A girdle next, Purple with gold embroidered o'er, to bind With witching grace the tunic that confines Her bosom's swelling charms: of silk the mantle, Gorgeous with like empurpled hues, and fixed With clasp of gold remember, too, the bracelets To gird her beauteous arms; nor leave the treasure Of ocean's pearly deeps and coral caves.
At that moment, her maidenly efforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to his. She had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit; her bosom's lord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being to whom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of no account; nor had his want of acres.
Duty remains the same, whether my heart is beating like a sledge-hammer, or whether 'my bosom's lord sits lightly on its throne. Whether I am sad or glad, the door that God has given me to watch has to be opened and shut by me.
Thou art near me then, and I well know with what kind purpose; thou hast abandoned all to fly to my assistance; and no wonder that, knowing thy friendship and faith, thy sound sagacity and persevering disposition, 'my bosom's lord should now sit lightly on his throne'; that gaiety should almost involuntarily hover on my pen; and that my heart should beat like that of a general, responsive to the drums of his advancing ally, without whose help the battle must have been lost.
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man. Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life Impress their characters on the smooth forehead, Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth: Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul Warmeth the inner frame.
Thus spoke within my bosom's core The thought as hitherward I strayed; And pensive 'mid the waving store, I mused, of autumn's yellow glade: These gifts of nature's bounteous reign, The teeming earth, and golden grain, Yon elms, among whose leaves entwine The tendrils of the clustering vine; Gay children of our sunny clime, Region of spring's eternal prime!
Were I this hour but gay eighteen, Thou couldst be but my bosom's queen; I might for longer years adore, But could not, could not love thee more.
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