VII.

TO A BUST OF HOMER.

[STANDING ON MY DESK.]

HOMER, thou art not dead!

Thou canst not die

While beats one heart on this terrestrial sphere,

That quickens to the spell of Poesy,

Or, Fancy's smile illumes its chambers drear.

Three thousand years have watched thy steady light
Guiding the minstrel band to Fame's high goal,
As Cynosura through the treacherous night,
Directs the mariner o'er the dangerous shoal.
Those filmy orbs emmove with Genius' fire;
Those pale lips speak from out the mighty past,
Of Helen's beauty, and Achilles' ire,

And Ilium's tears, and sighs, and struggles vast,
Until I hear the Grecian shouts resound,

And Troy's proud walls come tumbling to the ground.

VIII.

TO MY BOOKS.

HALLOWED Companions! tutors ! ministers !
To ye I bring my overburdened heart,
Bare its deep wounds with many sighs and tears,
And bless ye while ye soothe its burning smart.
If falsehood, envy, hate, or death surround me,
Ye fortify and make my spirit strong-

If sickness fling her pallid mantle round me,
Ye speed the weary-winged hours along;
If pleasure lure me to the festive hall-
Nature too long detain me by the brink,
Ye, like kind, watchful parents, gently call
Me hither, at your sapient founts to drink.—
Oh! who would spurn the shrine which Wisdom tends-
Oh! who could fail to love such pure and constant friends!

IX.

TO MY GUITAR.

So dear a friend as thou I never knew

Such truth, and faith, and love, and sympathy
From evanescent hearts I never drew,

As I have drawn from thy soul-melody.

When I am sad thou chant'st some Paynim story Until my woe is lost in woes of eld;

When I am glad, thou sing'st of knightly glory,
Till heart and brain in magic spell are held.
And here, all day, thy voice my spirit drinks,
While reeling rapture steals along my veins,
Till every pulse inebriated sinks

Beneath the power of thy delicious strains;
And softly beatific harp-notes roll,

And seraphs sing around the altars of my soul.

X.

THE OASES

THINK not that I am hapless, ye who read
The pensive numbers of my fervent lyre.
That in the heart are sown some upas-seed,
Is not to prove all healthful germs expire.
That in a garden are some withered bowers,
Crisped buds and yellow leaves bestrew the ground,

Is not to prove it hath nor herbs nor flowers.
Think not because I've stood on every round

Of Fortune's ladder, that no oases
Amid the desert of my heart upglow
Above the sands and sallow cypresses,

Cheering the weary pilgrims as they go

Not all the fires that Terra's breast consume,

Can kill these emerald spots that mid my heart-waste

bloom.

XI.

JOYS OF INTELLECTUAL EMPLOYMENT.

'Tis true I'm poor in what the world calls bliss;
"Tis true I have known many wounds of pride,
With which a weaker nature would have died.
"Tis true I've passed Charybdis in distress,
Yet mid the maelstrom thrilled with happiness.
We should not murmur 'gainst an earthly trial-
It throws a stronger sunlight on life's dial,
Awakes the spirit in its chrysalis,

And plumes it to the broad, bright heavens to soar.
O God! if I could sing the bliss I've known,

While sitting in this study-room alone,

Listing the soul-waves wash the eternal shore ;
If I could ring it out in one loud song,

"Twould shake the throne of grief and banish wrong.