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Remains there a mine unexplored but believed in,
Where lies the lost gold of our days at the goal-
Hath friendship a glance that she ne'er was deceived in,

Oh! they fall from us early, those stars of the soul! Have we trusted the light, have we toil'd for the treasure,

Though dimness and doubt o'er the searcher's path hungAnd oh, could we pour to Time's truth the full measure Of trust that is found in the faith of the young!

Thou dreamer of age, there were themes of proud story,
And song that rose on thee like stars from the sea,
Old Time hath no scythe for the might of their glory—
But how hath that glory departed from thee!

Thy soul yields no more to the spell of their splendor,

The tones it sent forth when the lyre was new strungThere are echoes still there for the brave and the tender, But none such as gush from the hearts of the young.

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 pang be unsung; 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 That stands as the tomb of Babylon,

On her ancient river's bound

For the land hath kept no trace beside
Of the old Chaldean's power and pride.

Upon that lonely height,

To mark the morning climb The skies of his native solitude, The genius of the desert stood,

And saw the conqueror Time Approach on pinions swift and dim,

But ever welcome was he to him.

For his journey left no track

On the long untrodden sand-
No human hopes or homes were there,
No blooming face or flowing hair,

To fear his withering hand;

And the genius greeted him who made
So wide the bounds of his scepter's shade.

They spoke of their ancient sway,
Of the temples rich and vast
That mouldered in their sight away;

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,
'Tis gold in the hamlet low,

To it they kneel with the bridal vail,

And the mourner's garb of woe

And childhood's joy, and youth's bright hair,
And the peace of age are offered there.

"I stood on Nimrod's tower,

When it rose to meet the stars,

And the boundless pride and the empire wide
Of the world's first conquerors,

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
That tells of a worship more divine.

"Still are the temples raised

To the God of light and song,
For many scorn, and some are borne
By the tides of life along,

Who oft in their weariness look back.
To the light they left in that chosen track.

"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 buried deep in the dust of years."

"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,
From the gather'd love of centuries,
And piled up wisdom of the past,
To bow to her very dust at last?"

THE ECLIPSE.*

BY FRANCES BROWN.

Watchers are on the earth; and o'er the sky

Strange darkness gathers, like a funeral pall,
Shrouding the summer day, while stars, that lie

Far in the depth of heaven, rekindle all
Their faded fires. But where is now the sun,
That arose so glorious on the Alps to-day?
Methinks his journey short and early done.

Not thus his wont to leave fair Italy!
Not thus so near the skirts of rosy June!
Why is the midnight come before the noon?

Night, but not silence, for old Pavia speaks,
As with the voice of unforgotten years,
When victory was her's. What now awakes
Such music in the fallen land of fears?
Is it some ancient echo in her heart,

Surviving Roman power and Gothic gold!
Or, glorious dream, that might not all depart—
The memory of brave battles won of old-
That wakes the pealing of that joyous cheer,

Which the far mountains answer deeply clear?

* 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?

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Not so rejoiced the Grecian legions, led

By great Iskander to the Persian shore; No so Ceoropia's host. But days of dread

Are past-the twilight of the world is o'er, With all its shadows. Pavia, from thy walls We hear the spirit of our brighter days Proclaim to Alpine huts and Roman halls,

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.

AUTUMN.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

Oh, welcome to the corn-clad slope,
And to the laden tree,

Thou promised autumn; for the hope
Of nations turned to thee,

Through all the hours of splendor past,
With summer's bright career;

And we see thee on thy throne at last,
Crowned monarch of the year!

Thou comest with the gorgeous flowers
That make the roses dim,

With morning mists and sunny hours,
And wild bird's harvest hymn;

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