THE MOTHER'S LOVE. THERE is none, In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Your breast the pillow of his infancy, - You ne'er made While to the fulness of your hearts glad heavings And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph broke Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours Steal from her all unmark'd! WOMAN AND FAME. THOU hasta charmed cup, O Fame, - Away! to me--a woman—bring Sweet waters from affection's spring. Thou hast green laurel-leaves that twine Into so proud a wreath For that resplendent gift of thine, Heroes have smiled in death. Give me from some kind hand a flower, Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone As when a trumpet's note hath blown, But mine, let mine a woman's breast By words of home-born love be bless'd. A hollow sound is in thy song, To the sick heart that doth but long For aid, for sympathy, For kindly looks to cheer it on, For tender accents that are gone. - Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay Unto the drooping reed, The cool fresh fountain in the day Of the soul's feverish need: Where must the lone one turn or flee? Not unto thee, oh! not to thee! THE THEMES OF SONG. WHERE shall the minstrel find a theme? Where'er for freedom shed, Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove, Of love, deep, holy, fervent love, Where'er a spire points up to heaven, Where'er the chieftain's crested brow Where'er a home and hearth have been, Where'er by some forsaken grave, Or where a yearning heart of old, With forms of more than earthly mould, There may the bard's high themes be found – We die, we pass away; But faith, love, pity — these are bound To earth without decay. The heart that burns, the cheek that glows, The tear from hidden springs, The thorn, and glory of the rose These are undying things. Wave after wave, of mighty stream, To the deep sea hath gone ; Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream, THE RETURN. "ART thou come with the heart of thy childhood back, The free, the pure, the kind?” – So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track, As they play'd to the mountain wind. "Hast thou been true to thy early love?" Whisper'd my native streams; "Doth the spirit rear'd amidst hill and grove, Still revere its first high dreams?" "Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air, "Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, Whose place of rest is nigh? With the father's blessing o'er thee shed With the mother's trusting eye? " Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain, I bring not my childhood's heart again "I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, O bright rejoicing streams! Light after light in my soul have died, The early glorious dreams! "And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd, The prayer at my mother's knee Darkened and troubled I come at last, Thou home of my boyish glee! "But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, To soften and atone; And O ye scenes of those blessed years! They shall make me again your own.” |