Remains there a mine unexplored but believed in, Thou dreamer of age, there were themes of proud story, The tones it sent forth when the lyre was new strung- Or say, have they pass'd from the paths of thy journey, The miss'd among thousands, the mourn'd-for apart― From the toil, from the tumult of life dost thou turn thee, At times to revisit the tombs of the heart? Green, green, in the leaf-fall of years will they greet thee, If fill'd by the flowers in thy home-shade that sprungAnd blessed are the lessons of love that will meet thee From mem'ries laid up in the graves of the young. Bright spring of the spirit, so soon passing from it, Thou know'st no return, and we ask thee not backFor who that hath reach'd e'en the snows of the summit, Would wish to retrace all the thorns of his track! And thorns, it may be, 'mid the verdure have found us— Deep, deep have they pierced, though the be unsung; pang But oh, for the dew of that day-spring around us Once more, as it falls on the paths of the young! THE GOD OF THE WORLD. BY FRANCES BROWN. The gray of the desert's dawn Had tinged that mighty mound Upon that lonely height, To mark the morning climb For his journey left no track On the long untrodden sand- To fear his withering hand; And the genius greeted him who made They spoke of their ancient sway, And the scorn of ages passed O'er the desert-dweller's lip and brow, As he said "What gods do they worship now?" The father of the years Looked up to the rising sun, And said "In the bounds his path surrounds, There reigns no god but one: All faith beside hath grown faint and cold, The only god in the world is gold. ""Tis gold in the city proud, "I stood on Nimrod's tower, When it rose to meet the stars, And the boundless pride and the empire wide Brought tribute to the gods of old But they ne'er were served like that mighty gold! "They praise the christian's God, And they build him temples fair; The prayer is made, and the creed is said— But gold is honored there; For they bear from the holy place no sign "Still are the temples raised To the God of light and song, Who oft in their weariness look back "In groves and crowded marts, I have sought love's shrines in vain, Yet it may be that in silent hearts Their ruins still remain But scorch'd by fire, and stain'd with tears, "And has the world grown old In vain?" said the shadowy sage, "And come at length to the age of gold, But not to the golden age? Is this the fruit of her latter days, THE ECLIPSE.* BY FRANCES BROWN. Watchers are on the earth; and o'er the sky Strange darkness gathers, like a funeral pall, Night, but not silence, for old Pavia speaks, Surviving Roman power and Gothic gold * During the eclipse of the sun which occurred in the end of July, 1844, the citizens of Pavia assembled in multitudes, in the principal square, for the purpose of witnessing the phenomenon; and in the midst of the deepest darkness, when the moon and stars were plainly visible, the whole concourse burst into one simultaneous shout. Or, hath the gathered city's mighty voice The queen of night amid her trophies hailed, As conqueror of the sun? Could she rejoice To see the splendor of his presence vailed, Who walked the heavens in unshared majesty, Since Time was born, the brightest and the first Of thousand gods:- still glorious on his way, As when through ancient night his chariot burst, And swept the circuit of those cloudless skies, That yet heard only starry harmonies? Not so rejoiced the Grecian legions, led By great Iskander to the Persian shore; The morn that met the sage or prophet's gaze, Through the far dimness of that long eclipse, Whose mighty darkness sealed great Galileo's lips. |