Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep! Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone; But a bright memory claims a proud regret— THE BROKEN CHAIN. I AM free!-I have burst through my galling chain, The life of young eagles is mine again; I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea, I may rove where the wind roves-my path is free! The streams dash in joy down the summer hill, The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will, The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze, And is not my spirit as one of these? Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers, And the voices that ring through its forest bowers, And the laughing glance of the founts that shine, Lighting the valleys-all, all are mine! I may urge through the desert my foaming steed, Captive and hast thou then rent thy chain? The bird when he pineth, may hush his song, May the fiery word from thy lip find way, [day? No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne, No! thou art chain'd till thy race is run, THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER. "La voila telle que la mort nous l'a faite."-BOSSUET. ["Never was a philosophical imagination more beautiful than that exquisite one of Kircher, Digby, and others, who discovered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, which were again raised up by the power of heat. The ashes of roses, say they, will again revive in roses, unsubstantial and unodoriferous; they are not roses which grow on rose-trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like apparitions, they are seen but for a moment."-Curiosities of Literature.] 'Twas a dream of olden days That Art, by some strange power, The visionary form could raise From the ashes of a flower. That a shadow of the rose, By its own meek beauty bow'd, Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose, Like pictures in a cloud. Or the hyacinth, to grace, As a second rainbow, spring; Of summer's path a dreary trace, A fair, yet mournful thing! For the glory of the bloom That a flush around it shed, And the soul within, the rich perfume, Where were they? Fled, all fled ! Naught but the dim, faint line To speak of vanish'd hours.Memory! what are joys of thine? -Shadows of buried flowers! LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. CREATURE of air and light! Emblem of that which will not fade or die! ["These two little pieces," (" He walked with God," and "The Rod of Aaron,") says the author in one of her letters, 66 'are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred Lyrics. They are all to be on scriptural subjects, and to go through the most striking events of the Old Testament, to those far more deeply affecting ones of the New." Two others ("The Voice of God" and "The Fountain of Marah") are subjoined, as having been probably intended to form a part of the same series.] HE walk'd with God, in holy joy, While yet his days were few; The deep, glad spirit of the boy To love and reverence grew. Whether, each nightly star to count, The ancient hills he trode, Or sought the flowers by stream and fountAlike he walk'd with God. The graver noon of manhood came, One voice was in his heart-the same THE ROD OF AARON. WAS it the sigh of the southern gale Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers No! from the breeze and the living light Shut was the sapless rod; But it felt in the stillness a secret might, And thrill'd to the breath of God. E'en so may that breath, like the vernal air, And all such things as are good and fair THE VOICE OF GOD. "I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid."-GEN. iii. 10. AMIDST the thrilling leaves, Thy voice At evening's fall drew near; Father and did not man rejoice That blessed sound to hear? |