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And on his face he lay and groaned aloud
Wrestling with hidden pain ; And in her chamber sat his wife in tears, And his sweet babes grew sad with whispered fears.
And so I turn’d sick-hearted
From the bright cup away, and, in my sadness,
Searched mine own bosom for some spring of gladness;
And lo! a fountain started
Whose waters ev’n in death flow calm and fast,
And my wild fever-thirst was slaked at last.
And then I met thee, Mary,
And felt how love may into fulness pour,
Like light into a fountain running o’er:
And I did hope to vary
My life but with surprises sweet as this,
A dream, but for thy waking, filled with bliss.
Yet now I feel my spirit-
Bitterly stirred, and—nay, lift up thy brow!
It is thine own voice echoing to thee now,
And thou didst pray to hear it-
I must unto my work and my stern hours !
Take from my room thy harp, and books and flowers !
* A year-
And in his room again he sat alone.'
His frame had lost its fulness in that time;
His manly features had grown sharp and thin,
And from his lips the constant smile had faded.
Wild fires had burned the languor from his eye:
The lids looked fevered, and the brow was bent
With an habitual frown. He was much changed.
His chin was resting on his clenched hand,
And with his foot he beat upon the floor
Unconsciously the time of a sad tune.
Thoughts of the past preyed on him bitterly. -
He had won power and held it. He had walked
Steadily upward in the eye of Fame,
And kept his truth unsullied—but his home
Had been invaded by envenomed tongues ;
His wife-his spotless wife—had been assailed
By slander, and his child had grown afraid
To come to him—his manner was so stern.
He could not speak beside his own hearth freely.
His friends were half estranged, and vulgar men
Presumed upon their services and grew
Familiar with him. He'd small time to sleep,
And none to pray ; and, with his heart in fetters,
He bore deep insults silently, and bowed
Respectfully to men who knew he loathed them!
And when his heart was eloquent with truth,
And love of country and an honest zeal
Burned for expression, he could find no words
They would not misinterpret with their lies."
What were his many honours to him now?
The good half doubted, falsehood was so strong-
His home was hateful with its cautious fears-
His wife lay trembling on his very breast
Frighted with calumny !— And this is FAME.
THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT.*
“ Infuentia cæli morbum hone movet, interdum omnibus aliis amotis."
MELANCTHON DE ANIMA, CAP. DE HUMORIBUS.
Night in Arabia. An hour ago,
Pale Dian had descended from the sky,
Flinging her cestus out upon the sea,
And at their watches now the solemn stars
Stood vigilant and lone; and, dead asleep,
* A famous Arabian astrologer, who is said to have spent forty years in discovering the motion of the eighth sphere. He had a scholar, a young Bedouin Arab, wbo, with a singular passion for knowledge, abandoned his wandering tribe, and, a;'plying himself too closely to astrology, lost his reason, and
With not a shadow moving on its breast,
The breathing earth lay in its silver dew,
And, trembling on their myriad viewless wings,
Th’imprisoned odours left the flowers to dream,
And stole away upon the yielding air.
Ben Khorat’s tower stands shadowy and tall
In Mecca's loneliest street; and ever there,
When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp
As constant as the Cynosure, and forth
From his looped window stretch the brazen tubes,
Pointing for ever at the central star
Of that dim nebula just lifting now
Over Mount Arafat. The sky to-night
Is of a clearer blackness than is wont,
And far within its depths the coloured stars*