self-discipline. Her poetic abstractions of excellence must be converted into tangible duties, and her craving sensibilities must nourish, by patient tenderness, the love that querulous demands would weary and repel. She must not only minister to his domestic comfort and enjoyment, but she should create in herself new tastes and faculties, and task all the deeper energies of her own nature, to meet the nobler necessities of his heart and mind, that no other source may be found to supply to him the aspirations and sympathies born of her intellect and tenderness. When a union, founded upon sympathy and taste, is sanctified by religious faith, and "made sure and steadfast" by a "hope of life everlasting," the "spring" is then fed from a "fountain" whose "living waters" will nourish the roots of the soul's nobler affections Till all be made immortal." ALL ALONE. It is not that my lot is low, In woods and glens I love to roam, Yet when the silent evening sighs, The autumn leaf is sear and dead; I would not be a leaf, to die The woods and winds, with sullen wail, Tell all the same unvaried tale; I've none to smile when I am free, Yet in my dreams a form I view, That thinks on me, and loves me too: I start, and when the vision 's flown, THE INVOCATION. O, ART thou still on earth, my love? My only love! Or smiling in a brighter home, Far, far above? O, is thy sweet voice fled, my love? Thy light step gone? And art thou not, in earth or heaven, Still, still my own? I see thee with thy gleaming hair, In midnight dreams! But cold, and clear, and spirit-like, Thy soft eye seems. Peace in thy saddest hour, my love, Dwell on thy brow! But something mournfully divine There shineth now! And silent ever is thy lip, And pale thy cheek: O, art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's? Speak to me, speak! A WISH. I ASK not golden stores of wealth, Or that on history's glowing page I envy not the calm retreat, From worldly noise and strife, The lowly cot, the flower-gemmed path, The simple joys of life. I ask not that in soft repose My peaceful days may glide, As the light bark is borne along The deep, unruffled tide. For I would cheer the aching heart, And soothe the mourner's pain; Would wipe away grief's bitter tears, The poor man's struggles aid; And guide the wanderer back, whose steps From virtue's path have strayed. Then, whether affluence and state Or 'neath the humble cottage roof LOST TIME. I THREW a bubble to the sea; From wave to wave, unchecked it passed, Thus glide unto the unknown shore Those golden moments we deplore; Those moments which, not thrown away, Might win for us eternal day. |