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64

NAPOLEON.

And nature saw her time of power-
A conqueror in tears!

The mighty bowed before a flower,
In the chastisement of years!
What can this mystery control!—
The father comes, as man's high soul
And hopes decay..

Alone before that chiseled brow,
His proudest victories

Flit by, like, hated phantoms now,

And holier visions rise

The empire of the heart unveils,

And lo! that crownless creature wails
His days of power.

The golden days whose suns went down,
As at the icy pole,

Lighting with dim but cold renown
The kingdom of the soul!

When all life's charities were dead,
And each affection failed or fled
That withering hour!

Oh! had the monarch to the wind
His hope of conquest flung,

And to the victory of mind

Had his warrior footsteps rung,

What then were desert rocks and seas,

FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL. 65

To one whom Destiny decrees

Such fadeless fame!

Oh! had the tyrant cast his crown
And jewels all away,

What though the pomp of life had flown,
And left a lowering day!

Then had thy speaking bust, brave boy!
Awoke with memories of joy
Thy fated name!

FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL.

SWEET Mary, I have never breathed
The love it were in vain to name;

Though round my heart a serpent wreathed,
I smiled, or strove to smile the same.

Once more the pulse of Nature glows
With faster throb and fresher fire,
While music round her pathway flows,
Like echoes from a hidden lyre.

And is there none with me to share
The glories of the earth and sky?
The eagle through the pathless air
Is followed by one burning eye.

66

LINES, BY A LADY.

Ah no! the cradled flowers may wake,
Again may flow the frozen sea,
From every cloud a star may break-
There comes no second spring to me.

Go-ere the painted toys of youth

Are crushed beneath the tread of years;
Ere visions have been chilled to truth,
And hopes are washed away in tears.

Go-for I will not bid thee weep,

Too soon my sorrows will be thine, And evening's troubled air shall sweep The incense from the broken shrine.

If Heaven can hear the dying tone

Of chords that soon will cease to thrill, The prayer that Heaven has heard alone May bless thee when those chords are still!

0. W. H.

LINES,

Written by a Lady, a few days before her death.

I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm,

That beat against my breast,

Rage on-thou may'st destroy this form,

And lay it low at rest;

But still the spirit that now brooks

LINES, BY A LADY.

Thy tempest raging high, Undaunted on its fury looks

With steadfast eye.

I said to Penury's meagre train,
Come on, your threats I brave,
My last poor life-drop you may drain,

And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures,
Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
With bitter smile.

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,
Pass on, I heed you not,

You may pursue me, till my form

And being are forgot;

Yet still the spirit which you see,
Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility

Its high-born smiles.

I said to Friendship's menaced blow
Strike deep, my heart shall bear,
Thou canst but add one bitter wo

To those already there.

Yet still the spirit that sustains

This last severe distress,

Shall smile upon its keenest pains,
And scorn redress.

67

68

TO A WAVE.

I said to Death's uplifted dart,
Aim sure, O why delay ?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart,
A weak reluctant prey.
For still the spirit, firm and free,
Triumphant in the last dismay,
Wrapped in its own eternity,

Shall, smiling, pass away.

TO A WAVE.

BY J. O. ROCKWELL,

LIST! thou child of wind and sea,
Tell me of the far off deep,
Where the tempest's wing is free,
And the waters never sleep.
Thou perchance the storm hath aided,
In its works of stern despair,
Or perchance thy hand hath braided,
In deep caves, the mermaid's hair.

Wave! now on the golden sands,'
Silent as thou art, and broken,
Bearest thou not from distant strands

To my heart some pleasant token?
Tales of mountains of the south,

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