PROMETHEUS. How awful is that hour, when conscience stings Tells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame; His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame. 185 186 PROMETHEUS. Our souls have wings; their flight is like the rush Darts his quick vision on his fated prey, We soar as proudly, and as quickly fall, This moment in the empyrean, then we sink, And wrapping in the joys of sense our all, The stream that flows from Heaven we cannot drink, Of pleasure's tempting current, till the wave Of what we might have been, and, idly brave, We take a short weak flight, and drop into the grave. SONG. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. WHEN other friends are round thee, When other bays have crowned thee, Yet do not think I doubt thee; I know thy truth remains, For all the world contains. And whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee. BY AMELIA B. WELBY. WHEN shines the star, by thee loved best, Upon these soft delicious eves, Lighting the ring-dove to her nest, Where trembling stir the darkling leaves; A softness o'er my heart doth come, TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. For if, amid those orbs that roll, Thou hast at times a thought of me, For every one that stirs thy soul A thousand stir my own of thee. Even now thy dear remembered eyes, And thy young face divinely fair, Like a bright cloud, seems melting through, While low sweet whispers fill the air, Making my own lips whisper too; For never does the soft south wind A thousand memories of thee. Oh! could I, while these hours of dreams Steal all unseen to some hushed place, For ever gaze on thy sweet face Till seeing every sense absorbs, 189 |