English

Thy life is like a fountain clear, upspringing
Beside the weary way I'm treading now;
I love to linger near, and feel it flinging
Its pure baptism on my fevered brow.

Thy gentle heart is like the couch of resting,
That welcomes home the wanderer of the deep,
To my tired spirit, weary with long breasting
The midnight waves that round about me sweep.

Thy soul is like a silver lake at even,
Emblem of power, and purity, and rest, —
Within its depths the eternal stars of heaven,

Apollo once had leave to travel;
He sought our Yankee land,
And he lionized it through,
With his golden lyre in hand.

Once, at " a cottage near a wood, "
Which promised welcome's smile,
He thought, by general invitation,
To rusticate awhile.

One morn he woke, — he yawned, — he turned, —
Sprang up with fright and grief,
And cried, " By George! my lyre is stolen:

A classic heaven of old thy soul, —
Song, grace, and fire divine;
But the heaven of a purer faith,
That Christian heart of thine.

Thus he who walks beside thee
Hath what employ he chooses;
May worship with the Angels,
Or converse with the Muses.

O glory-wedded! to thy brow
A coronal is given,
For which, when song and Greece were young,
The very gods had striven.

O, find'st thou not that envied crown
A weary weight, and chilling?
Its lonely glory, is it not
An ice-touch, heartward thrilling?

Ah, no! e'en now a rosy light
Those vernal leaves is flushing;
O woman-hearted, love's warm buds
Are 'mid thy laurels blushing!

" Enthusiast, " " Dreamer, " — such the names
Thine age bestows on thee,
For that great nature, going forth
In world-wide sympathy;
For the vision clear, the spirit brave,
The honest heart and warm,
And the voice which swells the battle-cry
Of Freedom and Reform!

Yet, for thy fearless manliness,
When weak time-servers throng, —
Thy chivalrous defence of right,
Thy bold rebuke of wrong, —
And for the flame of liberty,
Heaven-kindled in thy breast,
Which thou hast fed like sacred fire, —

Must silence rest upon thy lyre,
And will thy hand awake it never?
And must the great deeps of thy soul
Remain becalmed for ever?

O for a midnight storm of song!
The peal of arms, the blaze of glory,
Like that which once aroused a world, —
Thy Grecian hero's story!

O for a generous burst of song!
Like that which once new splendor shed
Round the " pilgrim shrine " of a poet's grave,

Noe L.

The word of deniall, and the letter of fifty
makes the gentlemans name that will never be thrifty.

And Noels answere / Raw Ly
The foe to the stommacke, and the word of disgrace
Shewes the gentlemans name with the bold face.

Th'offence of the stomake, with the woord of disgrace:
Is the gentlemans name, with th'effeminat face.
id est: Rawly.

The answer

The woord of deniall, and the letter of fiftie
Is the gentlemans name, that will never be thriftie
id est. Nowell

Aurora's fair flushed face some paler grew,
And in a faltering voice she said: " O Boy,
Inspired spirit of the woodlands dim,
Within thy ardent eyes I read thy tale;
Within the gentle pressure of thy hand
I feel Felicity's precipitous dawn.
Within thy fervent words I find a love
Such as all women crave but few receive.
The youth throbs in my veins; I ne'er have loved
But languished without solace of my dreams;
'Tis but sufficient that I look on thee
To know that Heav'n has stooped for me at last!

SCENE : Olympia

Upon a bank of dewy purple flow'rs
That sloped down to an amber rivulet,
Aurora leaned, clad in a shimmering robe
Of roseate hue, with swelling bosom bared
To the wind's soft caress; her flowerlike feet,
Unsandalled, dipped like rosebuds in the waves.
About her sloping shoulders fell a stream,
Of tawny tresses that enfolded her
In flaming strands of gold stol'n from the sun.
From under thoughtful brows her piteous eyes
Gazed darkly o'er the blossoming meadowlands;