WOMAN AND FAME.

Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest,
As o'er the cheek's warm glow,
And the sweet breathings low,

Of babes that grew and faded on her breast;
If then the dove-like tone

Of those faint murmurs gone,

O'er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If for the soft bright hair,

And brow and bosom fair,

And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;
O gentle forms, entwined

Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink!
Send from your calm profound

A still small voice-a sound

Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!
By all the pure meek mind

In your pale beauty shrined,

By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die!
O'er her worn spirit shed,

O fairest, holiest dead!

The faith, trust, joy, of immortality!

WOMAN AND FAME.

THOU hast a charmed cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.

Away! to me-a woman-bring

Sweet waters from affection's spring.

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine

Into so proud a wreath;

For that resplendent gift of thine,
Heroes have smiled in death:

Give me from some kind hand a flower,
The record of one happy hour!

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat

As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet:

But mine, let mine-a woman's breast,
By words of home-born love be bless'd

A hollow sound is in thy song,

A mockery in thine eye,

To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy-

295!

For kindly looks to cheer it on,

For tender accents that are gone.

Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay
Unto the drooping reed,

The cool fresh fountain in the day
Of the soul's feverish need:

Where must the lone one turn or flee ?—
Not unto thee-oh! not to thee!

A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE.

DREAMER! and would'st thou know If love goes with us to the viewless bourne ? Would'st thou bear hence th' unfathom'd source of woe In thy heart's lonely urn?

That

What hath it been to thee,

power, the dweller of thy secret breast? A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, Finding no place of rest:

A precious odor cast

On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by:
A voice of music utter'd to the blast,
And winning no reply.

Even were such answer thine

Would'st thou be bless'd ?-too sleepless, too profound,
Are the soul's hidden springs; there is no line
Their depth of love to sound.

Do not words faint and fail

When thou would'st fill them with that ocean's power?
As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale
In some o'erwhelming hour.

Doth not thy frail form sink

Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot,
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link
Where thy beloved are not?

Is not thy very soul

Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed,
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control,
Bows down thy weary head?

And would'st thou bear all this-
The burden and the shadow of thy life-
To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss
With earthly feelings' strife?

Not thus, not thus-oh, no!

Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care,

THE VOICE OF MUSIC.

That spirit of my soul should with me go

To breathe celestial air.

But as the skylark springs

To its own sphere, where night afar is driven,
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings,
So must love mount to heaven!

Vainly it shall not strive

There on weak words to pour a stream of fire;
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give.
As light might wake a lyre.

And oh! its blessings there

Shower'd like rich balsam forth on some dear heau,
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear,
A joy of sunlight shed.

Let me, then-let me dream

That love goes with us to the shore unknown;
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam
In mercy shall be thrown!

THE VOICE OF MUSIC.

297

"Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound." Childe Harold

WHENCE is the might of thy master-spell?
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!
How canst thou wake by one gentle breath,
Passionate visions of love and death!

How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh,
Words and low tones from the days gone by-
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?

Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!
What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring
In sudden gushes the tears to bring?
Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee,
Fountains of sorrow are stirr'd by thee!
Vain are those tears!-vain and fruitless all-
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall;
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns,
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns!
Something of mystery there surely dwells,
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells;
Something that finds not its answer here-
A chain to be clasp'd in another sphere.
Therefore a current of sadness deep,

Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky-
Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high'

Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troubled thought;
Speak for thou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regions more bright than earth.

THE ANGEL'S GREETING.
"Hark! they whisper!-Angels say,
Sister spirit, come away."-Pope.
COME to the land of peace.

Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away-
The sounds of weeping cease.

Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air.

Come to the bright and blest,

And crown'd for ever! 'midst that shining band,
Gather'd to Heaven's own wreath from every land,
Thy spirit shall find rest!

Thou hast been long alone:

Come to thy mother!-on the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.

In silence wert thou left:

Come to thy sisters!-joyously again

All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.

Over thine orphan head

The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy Father!-it is finish'd now;
Thy tears have all been shed.

In thy divine abode,

Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory-death by love no place:
Come, spirit, to thy God!

A FAREWELL TO WALES.

FOR THE MELODY CALLED "THE ASH GROVE," ," ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN.

THE Sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear

Farewell! and a blessing be with thee green land!
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air,
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free hand!

IMPROMTU LINES.-A PARTING SONG.

From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!
I bless thee!-yet not for the beauty which dwells

In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore;
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells,

Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore;
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled,
-Green land, poet land of my home and my dead!
bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat,
Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies;
For the cottage hearths burning the stranger to greet,

299

For the soul that shines forth from thy children's kind eyes! May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread, Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!

IMPROMPTU LINES,

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOW. ERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.

YE tell me not of birds and bees,

Not of the Sumer's murmuring trees,
Not of the streams and woodland bowers:-
A sweeter tale is yours fair flowers!

Glad tidings to my couch ye bring,

Of one still bright, still flowing spring-
A fount of kindness ever new,

In a friend's heart, the good and true.

A PARTING SONG.

"Oh! mes Amis, rappellez vous quelquefois mes vers; mon ame y est empreinte."-Corinne.

WHEN will ye think of me my friends?

When will ye think of me!

When the last red light, the farewell of day,

From the rock and the river is passing away-
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought-
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me kind friends?
When will ye think of me?

When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime-
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread-
Then let it be!