WOMAN AND FAME. Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine For that resplendent gift of thine, Heroes have smiled in death: Give me from some kind hand a flower, Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone As when a trumpet's note hath blown, But mine, let mine-a woman's breast, A hollow sound is in thy song, A mockery in thine eye, To the sick heart that doth but long 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! 199 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 ? What hath it been to thee, That power, the dweller of thy secret breast? A precious odour cast On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by; And winning no reply. Even were such answer thine Would'st thou be bless'd?-too sleepless, too pro found, Are the soul's hidden springs; there is no line 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? A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. Is not thy very soul Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, And would'st thou bear all this Not thus, not thus-oh, no! Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care, But as the skylark springs To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, Vainly it shall not strive 201 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 head, Let me, then let me dream That love goes with us to the shore unknown; THE VOICE OF MUSIC. "Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound." Childe Harold. WHENCE is the might of thy master-spell? How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh, What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring Vain are those tears!-vain and fruitless all- Something of mystery there surely dwells, 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! THE ANGEL'S GREETING. 203 Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, The sounds of weeping cease. Fear hath no dwelling there! Come to the mingling of repose and love, 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, |