TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN. BY THOMAS WARD. THOU bright and star-like spirit! My grief is quench'd in wonder, A branch from this unworthy stock Our hopes of thee were lofty, The little weeper, tearless, The sinner, snatch'd from sin; The babe, to more than manhood grown, And I, thy earthly teacher, Would blush thy powers to see; Thou art to me a parent now, And I, a child to thee! Thy brain, so uninstructed While in this lowly state, Now threads the mazy track of spheres, Or reads the book of fate. 16* (185) 186 TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN. Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision, Thy little hand, so helpless, That scarce its toys could hold, Thy feeble feet, unsteady, That totter'd as they trod, With angels walk the heavenly paths, Nor is thy tongue less skilful; 'Tis pleading for a mother's weal, What bliss is born of sorrow! The heavenly surgeon maims to save, Our God, to call us homeward, And now, still more to tempt our hearts, Has taken up our own. 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, 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 |