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MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

BY LYDIA M. CHILD.

PILLARS are fallen at thy feet,
Fanes quiver in the air,
A prostrate city is thy seat,
And thou alone art there.

No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee;
Thine eyebeam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crown'd thee.

It cannot bend thy lofty soul

Though friends and fame depart;
The car of fate may o'er thee roll,
Nor crush thy Roman heart.

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:

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ENDYMION.

Yet, there is something will not die,
Where life hath once been fair;

Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!

ENDYMION.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW,

THE rising moon has hid the stars,
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,

With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low,

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dream'd not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unask'd, unsought,
Loves gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassion'd gaze.

It comes-the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity-

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one,

THE SUM OF LIFE.

It lifts the bows, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes

Of him, who slumbering lies.

O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes!
O, drooping souls, whose destinies

Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,

No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto its own.

Responds-as if, with unseen wings,

A breath from heaven had touch'd its strings;
And whispers, in its song,
"Where hast thou stay'd so long?"

THE SUM OF LIFE.

BY J. O. ROCKWELL.

SEARCHER of gold, whose days and nights
All waste away in anxious care,
Estranged from all of life's delights,
Unlearn'd in all that is most fair-
Who sailest not with easy glide,
But delvest in the depths of tide,

And strugglest in the foam;

O! come and view this land of graves,
Death's northern sea of frozen waves,

And mark thee out thy home.

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THE SUM OF LIFE.

Lover of woman, whose sad heart
Wastes like a fountain in the sun,

Clings most, where most its pain does start,
Dies by the light it lives upon;

Come to the land of graves; for here

Are beauty's smile, and beauty's tear,
Gather'd in holy trust;

Here slumber forms as fair as those
Whose cheeks, now living, shame the rose,
Their glory turn'd to dust.

Lover of fame, whose foolish thought
Steals onward o'er the wave of time,
Tell me, what goodness hath it brought,
Atoning for that restless crime?

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 see where all thy pride must be:
Searcher of fame, look here!

And, warrior, thou with snowy plume,
That goest to the bugle's call,
Come and look down; this lonely tomb
Shall hold thee and thy glories all :
The haughty brow, the manly frame,
The daring deeds, the sounding fame,

Are trophies but for death!

And millions who have toil'd like thee,
Are stay'd, and here they sleep; and see,
Does glory lend them breath?

THE PRESENCE OF GOD.

BY AMELIA B. WELBY.

O, THOU who fling'st so fair a robe
Of clouds around the hills untrod―
Those mountain-pillars of the globe
Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O GOD!
All glittering round the sunset skies,
Their fleecy wings are lightly furl'd,
As if to shade from mortal eyes

The glories of yon upper world;
There, while the evening star upholds
In one bright spot, their purple folds,
My spirit lifts its silent prayer,

For Thou, O God of love, art there.

The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet,
Up-springing freely from the sod,

In whose soft looks we seem to meet
At every step, thy smiles, O GOD!
The humblest soul their sweetness shares,
They bloom in palace-hall, or cot,—
Give me, O Lord, a heart like theirs,
Contented with my lowly lot;
Within their pure, ambrosial bells,

In odours sweet thy spirit dwells.
Their breath may seem to scent the air—

'Tis thine, O GOD! for Thou art there.

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