WOMAN AND FAME.

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-

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!

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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 dove sent forth across a stormy sea,

Finding no place of rest:

A precious odour 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?

A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE.

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,
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

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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,
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.

"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!

THE ANGEL'S GREETING.

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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."

COME to the land of peace!

POPE.

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.