'Ay-though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first—
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild-
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"All-I would do it all-
Sooner than die, like a dull worm to rot-
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
O heavens !-but I appal
Your heart, old man! forgive-Ha! on your lives, Let him not faint!-rack him till he revives !
He does not feel you now
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die
But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!
Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now-that was a difficult breath-
Another! Wilt thou never come, O Death?
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders-gasps-Jove help him!-so-he's dead."
How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of LUCIFER, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendour and forget
The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life
Many a falser idol. There are hopes
Promising well; and love-touched dreams for some;
And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes
For gold and pleasure - yet will only this
Balk not the soul-Ambition only, gives,
Even of bitterness, a beaker full!
Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,
Troubled at best-Love is a lamp unseen,
Burning to waste, or, if its light is found,
Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken--
Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires,
And Quiet is a hunger never fed:
And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain,
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose-
From all but keen Ambition--will the soul
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness
To wander like a restless child away.
Oh, if there were not better hopes than these--
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame—
If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart
Must canker in its coffers--if the links
Falsehood hath broken will unite no more--
If the deep yearning Love, that hath not found
Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears--
If Truth, and Fervor, and Devotedness,
Finding no worthy altar, must return
And die of their own fulness--if beyond
grave there is no heaven in whose wide air The spirit may find room, and in the love
Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart
May spend itself,--what thrice-mocked fools are we!
Anne C. Lynch (Madame Botta).
THE BATTLE OF LIFE.
THERE are countless fields the green earth o'er Where the verdant turf has been dyed with gore;
Where hostile ranks, in their grim array,
With the battle's smoke have obscured the day;
Where hate was stamped on each rigid face,
As foe met foe in the death embrace ;
Where the groans of the wounded and dying rose,
Till the heart of the listener with horror froze,
And the wide expanse of the crimsoned plain
Was piled with its heaps of uncounted slain :
But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife,
Is that which is waged in the battle of life.
The hero that wars on the tented field,
With his shining sword and his burnished shield,
Goes not alone with his faithful brand;
Friends and comrades around him stand,
The trumpets sound and the war-steeds neigh
To join in the shock of the coming fray--
And he flies to the onset, he charges the foe,
Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides flow;
And he bears his part in the conflict dire
With an arm all nerve and a heart all fire.
What though he fall?--at the battle's close,
In the flush of the victory won he goes,
With martial music and waving plume,
From a field of fame to a laurelled tomb.
But the hero who wars in the battle of life,
Must stand alone in the fearful strife;
Alone in his weakness or strength must go,
Hero or craven, to meet the foe:
He may not fly on that fatal field-
He must win or lose, he must conquer or yield.
Warrior, who comest to this battle now
With a careless step and a thoughtless brow,
As if the field were already won-
Pause and gird all thine armour on;
Myriads have come to this battle-ground
With a valiant arm and a name renowned,
And have fallen vanquished to rise no more,
Ere the sun was set or the day half o'er.
Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless will,
An ardent soul that no blast can chill?
Thy shield of Faith hast thou tried and proved-
Canst thou say to the mountain, "Be thou moved ?"
In thy hand does the sword of Truth flame bright?
Is thy banner emblazoned, "For God and the right ?"
In the might of prayer dost thou strive and plead?
Never had warrior greater need!
Unseen foes in thy pathway hide;
Thou art encompassed on every side.
There Pleasure waits with her siren train,
Her poison flowers and her hidden chain;
Hope with her Dead-Sea fruits is there;
Sin is spreading her gilded snare;
Flattery counts with her hollow smiles,
Passion with silvery tone beguiles;
Love and Friendship their charmed spells weave;
Trust not too deeply-they may deceive!
Disease with her ruthless hand would smite,
And Care spread o'er thee a withering blight;
Hate and Envy, with visage black,
And the serpent Slander, are on thy track.
Guilt and Falsehood, Remorse and Pride,
Doubt and Despair, in thy pathway glide;
Haggard Want, in her demon joy,
Waits to degrade thee and then destroy;
Palsied Age in the distance lies,
And watches his victim with rayless eyes;
And Death the insatiate is hovering near,
To snatch from thy grasp all thou holdest dear.
No skill may avail and no ambush hide:
In the open field must the champion bide,
And face to face and hand to hand
Alone in his valour confront that band.
In war with these phantoms that gird him round, No limbs dissevered may strew the ground;
No blood may flow, and no mortal ear
The groans of the wounded heart may hear,
As it struggles and writhes in their dread control,
As the iron enters the riven soul:
But the youthful form grows wasted and weak,
And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek;
The brow is furrowed, but not with years;
The eye is dimmed with its secret tears;
And streaked with white is the raven hair-
These are the tokens of conflict there.
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