And though its crown of flame

Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me-
By all the fiery stars! I'd pluck it on me!

Ay-though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first-
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—

All-I would do it all

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot-
Thrust foully into the earth to be forgot-
Oh Heavens-but I appal

Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!—rack him till he revives!

Vain-vain-give o'er. His eye

Glazes apace. He does not feel

you now

Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!

Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse

Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

Shivering! Hark! he mutters

Brokenly now that was a difficult breath-
Another? Wilt thou never come, oh, Death!
Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!

He shudders-gasps-Jove help him-so-he's dead."

*

How like a mountain devil in the heart
Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the desert for the spirit's lip,

We look upon our splendor and forget

The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life

Many a falser idol. There are hopes
Promising well, and love-touch'd dreams for some,
And passions, many a wild one, and fair schemes
For gold and pleasure—yet will only this
Balk not the soul-Ambition only gives
Even of bitterness a beaker full!
Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,
Broken at best-Love is a lamp unseen
Burning to waste, or if its light is found,

Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken-
Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires,
And Quiet is a hunger never fed-

And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose—
From all but keen Ambition, will the soul
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness
To wander like a restless child- away.
Oh, if there were not better hopes than these—
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame-
If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart
Must canker in its coffers-if the links
Treachery-broken, will unite no more—
If the deep-yearning love that hath not found
Its like in the cold world must waste in tears-
If truth and fervor and devotedness

Finding no worthy altar, must return

And die with their own fulness-if beyond

The grave there is no Heaven in whose wide air

The spirit may find room, and in the love

Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart

May spend itself-what thrice-mocked fools are we!

THE WIFE'S APPEAL.

He sat and read. A book with golden clasps,
Printed in Florence, lettered as with jet
Set upon pearl, lay raised upon a frame
Before him. "Twas a volume of old time;
And in it were fine mysteries of the stars
Solved with a cunning wisdom, and strange thoughts,
Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams
Clearer than truth and speculations wild
That touched the secrets of your very soul,
They were so based on Nature. With a face
Glowing with thought, he pored upon the book.
The cushions of an Indian loom lay soft
Beneath his limbs, and, as he turned the page,
The sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold,
Fell on his jewelled fingers tinct with rose,
And the rich woods of the quaint furniture

Lay deepening their veined colors in the sun,
And the stained marbles on their pedestals
Stood like a silent company-Voltaire,

With an infernal sneer upon

his lips,

And Socrates, with godlike human love
Stamped on his countenance, and orators

Of times gone by that made them, and old bards,
And Medicean Venus, half divine.

Around the room were shelves of dainty lore,

And rich old pictures hung upon the walls
Where the slant light fell on them, and cased gems,
Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques

From Herculaneum the niches filled.
And on a table of enamel, wrought

With a lost art in Italy, there lay
Prints of fair women, and engravings queer,
And a new poem, and a costly toy,
And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze
Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep
Upon the carpet couched a graceful hound
Of a rare breed, and as his master gave
A murmur of delight at some sweet line,
He raised his slender head, and kept his eye
Upon him till the pleasant smile had passed
From his mild lips, and then he slept again.