Oh, quit thy hold, enact Point out to me the forms Glad mastership, and revel where you toiled Sleepless and stern. For thou art faint, and chill, and cold, | That in your treasure-chambers shall Remember we shall meet again. Quell with this hope the victor's sting, And keep it as a signet-ring, When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast, And nought but ashes mark thy rest, When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark, And proud suns quench their glowworm spark, Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom, Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. -Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair, Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear, Strange faces are they all. man! whose wrinkling labor is for heirs Thou knowest not who, thou in thy mouldering bed, Unkenned, unchronicled of them, shall sleep; Nor will they thank thee, that thou didst bereave Thy soul of good for them. Now, thou mayest give The famished food, the prisoner liberty, Light to the darkened mind, to the lost soul A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult To be co-worker with the King of kings. THE CORAL INSECT. TOIL on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, Who build on the tossing and treacherous main; Toil on! for the wisdom of man ye mock, With your sand-based structures, and domes of rock; Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, And your arches spring up through Ye bind the deep with your secret zone. The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone: Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king: Brings independence, fearlessness of ill, Courage and pride,-all attributes we prize; Though their fruits fail, not the less precious still. Though fame withholds the trophy of desire, And men deny, and the impatient throng Grow heedless, and the strains protracted, tire; Not wholly vain the minstrel and the song, If, striving to arouse one heavenly tone In others' hearts, it wakens up his own. And this, methinks, were no unseemly boast, In him who thus records the experience Rise though he reap no honors,— what though death terrible between him and the wreath, That had been his reward, ere, in the dust, He too is dust; yet hath he in his heart, The happiest consciousness of what is just, Sweet, true, and beautiful,-which will not part [faith, From his possession. In this happy He knows that life is lovely,- that all things Are sacred; that the air is full of wings Bent heavenward, and that bliss is born of scath! HEART ESSENTIAL TO GENIUS. WE are not always equal to our fate, and fear Beset the bravest in their high career, At moments when the soul, no more elate With expectation, sinks beneath the time. The masters have their weakness. "I would climb," Said Raleigh, gazing on the highest hill, "But that I tremble with the fear to fall!" Apt was the answer of the highsouled Queen, "If thy heart fail thee, never climb at all!" The heart! if that be sound, confirms the rest, Crowns genius with his lion will and mien, And, from the conscious virtue in the breast, To trembling nature gives both strength and will! UNHAPPY CHILDHOOD. THAT season which all other men regret, And strive, with boyish longing, to recall, Which love permits not memory to forget, And fancy still restores in dreams of all That boyhood worshipped, or believed, or knew,— Brings no sweet images to me,-was true, Only in cold and cloud, in lonely days And gloomy fancies,-in defrauded claims, Defeated hopes, denied, denying aims; Cheered by no promise,-lighted by no rays, ON the Sabbath-day, Through the church-yard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balmis, 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music-in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara. My heart was otherwhere While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mineGleamed and vanished in a moment - Oh, that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara! O pallid, pallid face! O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist; The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, That wild morning, Barbara! |