MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. BY LYDIA M. CHILD. PILLARS are fallen at thy feet, No change comes o'er thy noble brow, It cannot bend thy lofty soul Though friends and fame depart; And genius hath electric power, Which earth can never tame; Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower, Its flash is still the same. The dreams we loved in early life, May melt like mist away; High thoughts may seem, mid passion's strife, Like Carthage in decay; And proud hopes in the human heart May be to ruin hurl'd; Like mouldering monuments of art Heap'd on a sleeping world: 188 ENDYMION. Yet, there is something will not die, Some towering thoughts still rear on high, ENDYMION. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, THE rising moon has hid the stars, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, Had dropt her silver bow On such a tranquil night as this, Like Dian's kiss, unask'd, unsought, It comes-the beautiful, the free, In silence and alone To seek the elected one, THE SUM OF LIFE. It lifts the bows, whose shadows deep Of him, who slumbering lies. O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes! Are fraught with fear and pain, No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds-as if, with unseen wings, A breath from heaven had touch'd its strings; THE SUM OF LIFE. BY J. O. ROCKWELL. SEARCHER of gold, whose days and nights And strugglest in the foam; O! come and view this land of graves, And mark thee out thy home. 189 190 THE SUM OF LIFE. Lover of woman, whose sad heart Clings most, where most its pain does start, Come to the land of graves; for here Are beauty's smile, and beauty's tear, Here slumber forms as fair as those Lover of fame, whose foolish thought The spirit-mansion desolate, And open to the storms of fate, The absent soul in fear; Bring home thy thoughts and come with me, And, warrior, thou with snowy plume, Are trophies but for death! And millions who have toil'd like thee, THE PRESENCE OF GOD. BY AMELIA B. WELBY. O, THOU who fling'st so fair a robe The glories of yon upper world; For Thou, O God of love, art there. The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet, In whose soft looks we seem to meet In odours sweet thy spirit dwells. 'Tis thine, O GOD! for Thou art there. |